


The Little Bird Wants to Play

by desla_be



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Kind of a slow burn, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Very mild dubious consent, free of major character deaths, sort of canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2020-10-01 20:34:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 47,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20397139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desla_be/pseuds/desla_be
Summary: Sansa feels guilty about not having thanked the Hound for saving her life. She does say thank you, but he has other ideas about how she can express her gratitude.Eventual escape from King’s Landing.This storyline begins after the Bread Riot but before the BBB.Disclaimer that Sansa is aged up in this fic, do with that what you will.





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa jolted upright from her bed, a layer of sweat covering her skin. Where there’d been dirt and blood and horse dung, now all she could see were the dyed furs surrounding her, the tall chestnut posts at the foot of her bed and the white-yellow light coming in through the windows. She was safe... or, as safe as she could be in King’s Landing.

Still it was hard to extinguish the men from her memory, and each time Sansa closed her eyes she saw their faces. Sleeping was the worst of all... She would wake up covered with her own sweat and sometimes she would discover scratches and scabs of her own doing in the night. Had they even known who she was?— That she was Lady Stark and the king’s betrothed? Obviously they’d not cared, and she wasn’t very sure that Joffrey had cared either. His love for her had gone away long ago, if ever it had existed, but could he really want her dead? 

The only person who cared at all was the Hound, and he hated knights and lords, and mayhap ladies too. Yet it had been _him_ who saved her, for no one else could claim his heroism. She’d been more than lucky that he’d come for her, in fact, he’d been her _true knight _that day and nothing short of it. Sandor Clegane saved her virtue and her life and she had yet to offer him a word of thanks. 

In Sansa’s defense, however, she hadn’t even seen him since he dropped her into her handmaidens’ arms after the rioting. Surely he went right back to doing exactly what he always did:  _guarding Joffrey..._ But Sansa couldn’t know for sure. She was too scared to step outside the security of her own bedchamber, and in truth she’d been making herself sick with worry that her would-be rapers would creep back in and do for her all over again. Logically, however, Sansa knew that it could never happen as long as dead men stayed dead. _Dead_, she thought, _because the Hound killed them... for me._

She kept the doors barred and only left when she was called upon by Joff or the Queen. And thankfully whenever she did leave, she was escorted by one of Joff’s Kingsguard. Only it was never Sandor Clegane that came for her. 

However, now that she’d kept to herself for these past few days in utter solitude, not talking to anyone except for her handmaidens, she was becoming more and more keen on talking to the Hound. He deserved her thanks for his valiance and bravery on the day of the riots, that was true... but there was more. While Sansa saw the faces of her perpetrators each night in her dreams, she’d also been seeing another face. A sharp-featured, disconcerting face, scarred on one side only. And while the face was dark and hard and scowling more often than not, it belonged to her savior. As much as Sansa repeated in her mind that Sandor Clegane hated everything and everyone and would be most vexed to hear her refer to him so highly, she couldn’t shake away the fact that her fate had been in his hands, and he’d killed her villains and delivered her safe. She owed him her gratitude at the very least.

Truthfully, however, she wasn’t very keen on seeing him. The Hound was crude and unkind to _everyone_, and Sansa was hardly an exception. Was he worse than the boy she was expected to wed? Certainly not, but the execution of her own father was a hard act to follow. Sandor Clegane still made her heart race anxiously, that was true enough, but the sooner they would talk, the sooner she hoped she could rid the rioting from her mind. The dreams of her family and of her little wolf were well missed, and she would not grieve to never see her wrongdoers’ faces again.

Sansa turned over her furs and cautiously slid her legs over the bed, bringing herself onto her feet. Her legs ached terribly under her weight and her skin was crawling, but she was determined to get this over with. It was too early to expect her handmaidens, so Sansa didn’t wait for their help in changing into a light blue gown. Over it, she pulled on her grey cloak with the  Stark  sigil that she’d embroidered herself. 

The bar on the door squeaked a little as she slid it from its seat, but Sansa left the room with a confident stance, her hands clasped together in front of her as a lady’s hands should.

While she intended to hold her confident facade, she was overtaken by paranoia as she roamed the halls alone looking for Joffrey’s dog.  _Oh gods_,  she certainly hoped she wouldn’t see  _him_. Everyone knew that Joffrey was cruel, if not the cruelest person in the seven kingdoms, but Sansa didn’t think anyone knew as well as her. He never required provocation before hurting her, therefore it was best to avoid him whenever she could. Sansa was afraid that if Joffrey saw her talking to the Hound he might find yet another peculiar excuse to abuse her. That she was _wandering the halls without permission_, or _distracting his dog from his duties_. 

_But Sandor Clegane isn’t a dog_, Sansa knew. _He’s gentler than he pretends to be_. _He has to be, _she told herself. _He saved me_. 

After some time of searching the halls, Sansa peered and saw him standing along the wall opposite of Joffrey’s bedchambers, exactly where he should’ve been. She quickly turned her body behind the corner, hoping he hadn’t yet caught her with his eyes. Sansa felt nausea rise in her stomach suddenly and a flash of heat traveled through her, forming beads of sweat in her palms. 

_All I have to do is thank him and be on my way_,  Sansa soothed herself. Maybe she would feel more at ease if she had less time to think about it. What she really wanted was to go right back to her bedchamber and hide beneath the covers... but Sansa decided that that was ridiculous. She was a _l__ady, _the Hound had nothing on her... except for his brute strength. But he couldn’t lay a hand on her, for Joffrey wouldn’t allow it. No matter how the Hound...  _ felt  _ about Sansa, how he  watched  her, he couldn’t act upon it. Joffrey would have his head on a spike next to her father’s. 

Sansa quickly walked out from her corner, not giving herself any more time to rethink it. 

The Hound didn’t even look fazed as he saw her, as though he knew she was there all along. His hand was placed over the grip of his sword inelegantly and it twitched as she got closer. Sansa left herself a little ways away from him as her feet wouldn’t let her get any closer.

The Hound narrowed his eyes at her. “The little bird wandering the halls alone?” His tone was rasping and metallic and there wasn’t a hint of curiosity to be heard as he spoke to her.

Sansa swallowed. She could feel the perspiration on her forehead only she was too tense under his thick gaze to reach up and wipe it off. “Yes, ser, it’s too—“ 

He stopped her right there, his eyes hardening as his body tensed. “I’m not a  _knight_,  girl. I’ve already told you of my thoughts of those swineherds so spare me your curt titles.” 

Sansa grew even more nervous than she already was. Her legs trembled beneath her and her hands were clammy. She wouldn’t set her eyes on his own. Instead she kept them on his breastplate, specifically on the  Clegane  sigil. 

“Pardons...” Sansa paused, frantically pondering what she should call him. She wouldn’t call him  _Sandor_,  that was too intimate. They didn’t have that kind of relationship. She couldn’t call him  _ Clegane  _ either— ladies should be more respectful than that. 

She settled on not addressing him by any name. “I w-wanted to say...” 

The Hound sighed heavily, as though he was agitated by her discomfort and fear of him. “You’re shaking, little bird. Do I still frighten you so much that you can’t bear my company without trembling?” He  _ did  _ frighten her so much. Nevertheless, he reached his arm out for her to steady herself on. Sansa hesitantly took it, letting her eyes slowly rise up to meet his. Along the way, she saw the old scars that covered nearly half of his head. 

“No... well, yes...” Sansa gripped his arm tightly to try to stop her legs from trembling. “I only came to thank you. If you had not been there... well...” 

Something in his expression changed for the worse, though he reached out with his other hand and grabbed her around the shoulder.

“Easy, girl...” he said.

He looked irritable as ever, though the gesture made her feel a little more comfortable in his presence. Sansa upturned her lips slightly at him.

“Aye, little bird, they would’ve hurt you but don’t think about it too much. It’s no great thing for a dog to chase off a bunch of vermin.”

“No, it _is_. You were  _brave_.  You saved me, truly,” Sansa told him. She wasn’t trembling anymore, and though she didn’t need to lean on him, she kept her hands around his arms firmly anyway. 

The Hound shrugged her off of him. “I’m not  brave,  girl, I’m a  _dog_. Might do you some good to remember that,” he snarled, turning his face away from her as though trying to end the conversation. 

It made Sansa’s head hot, the way he always growled at her. He always growled at everyone really, but she was being kind to him, or at least trying to. “Why are you always so  _angry_?” She moved back in front of him, her legs quivering again. This time he didn’t reach out. “I was only thanking  you and you still treat me horribly.”

The Hound barked out a laugh just then, “_Horribly_?  If this is what you think horrible treatment is, you must not‘ve seen much at  Winterfell.” 

It was true, she loathed to admit, she hadn’t. She had always been protected by her parents from any atrocities in Winterfell. “Well that’s not...” 

It dawned on Sansa that the Hound hadn’t been standing to his full height before, for when he finally straightened his body seemed to tower over hers.

“Your gratitude is shite, for a _lady,_” he mocked._ ”_If you want to thank me truly, little bird, it’ll take more than just a few words rolling off of your pretty lips.” 

Sansa looked up at his cold, grey eyes again. He was staring at her lips just then and she gulped audibly. 

He let go of his sword for the first time to cross his arms and bend his head toward her. “What?— Does the little bird want to play after all?” 

Sansa stumbled back until she hit the wall behind her. The Hound stopped approaching her just then, barking out another laugh. Sansa turned and ran back to her bedchambers. 

She was trying to sort out the events that just happened as she closed her door quickly, not even bothering to bar it. She hesitantly approached her cedar chest, as though she was afraid a grumpkin would jump out at her. It creaked as she opened it but no grumpkins were inside, thankfully. 

_He asked me if I wanted to play,_ Sansa thought, only she didn’t know what sorts of games ladies her age liked to play. Neither could she think of a game the Hound might’ve liked to play. 

Sansa looked at the white cloak thoughtfully. The Hound had draped it over her when Joffrey had Ser Meryn beat her in the Royal Throne Room. She stroked her fingers over the wool and, after checking to make sure that no one was behind her, bent her nose down to catch its scent. It didn’t smell unpleasant. It didn’t smell  _good_,  but not unpleasant. She had been able to get a whiff of the Hound a few times and for most of them, she hadn’t enjoyed him being so close to her. 

As she was pondering him, Sansa wrapped the cloak around herself and climbed into her bed. Her Stark robes needed to be removed first, however. She sat facing the door, her legs curled into her chest while the heavy cloak warmed her. 

Sansa still feared him, but anyone who didn’t fear Sandor Clegane was stupid, even she knew that to be true . While Sansa still feared him, she liked to entertain the idea that he wouldn’t hurt her. 

Sansa heard a knock at her door and she jerked her body, ripping the cloak off of her back and tossing it under her featherbed. She called out to her guest. When the door opened, it was only two of her handmaidens. 

The two maids chattered away, amongst themselves and with Sansa. They scurried around the room and tended to her clothes and her breakfast. Sansa enjoyed them in the room. They weren’t strong knights, and they couldn’t protect her, but their company gave her a sense of security. At the very least, they made her feel less lonely. 

Once they left her to herself, Sansa pulled out her parchment and quill and began to write. She liked to write letters to her mother, even though she would never be able to send them. It felt relieving to have someone to talk to... despite never getting a response.  There were things that Sansa needed to get out, but she couldn’t trust anyone in King’s Landing. 

Sansa’s days weren’t amusing, she had little to do really. Little  _desire_ to do much anyway. She usually went to the Godswood. She knew she shouldn’t travel there alone, but she enjoyed the peace and solitude. 

She entertained Joffrey when he required her company. Usually the “entertainment” involved him mocking her, forcing her to watch his cruelty towards others or having Ser Meryn or Ser Boros beat her. It all depended on the mood he was in at the moment. 

She was glad that Joffrey couldn’t touch her until they were married.  _Yes_,  she knew,  _eventually he will force me to the marriage bed_. It was true, she was very scared of what happened in the marriage bed. She knew that it would hurt, and she didn’t like thinking about it... though it was hard not to. It was especially difficult not to think about her sad future when Joff slipped her comments about their weeding night. And most of all, it horrified her to think about bearing Joffrey’s children. _What if they become monsters just like him? _she couldn’t help but wonder. But until that would happen, Sansa enjoyed her space from him, ashamed that she could’ve ever had affection for him. 

Sansa also wandered around the Red Keep sometimes. Although she was nervous that she would run into any of the Lannisters, she knew that it was unhealthy to stay in her bedroom all day long. She always attended at the meals, but she truly preferred to simply be alone. 

Sansa put her quill and her parchment back in her hiding spot. Really it wasn’t much of hiding spot, it was inside of the bookshelf along the wall. It wasn’t very creative- but that was the intention. Sansa had heard that its clever to hide things in plain sight, so she took the advice and kept her parchment inside of a Westerosi history book on the shelf. 

As she was approaching her bed again, ready to lay down and dream, she leaned over and scooped up the smooth, white cloak. Sansa let the cloak hug her and snuggled back against it. 

After a while, Sansa hadn’t known how long, her door creaked open. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa’s heart raced as she tried to identify the figure in her doorway. Her room was so dark that she could only see a burly shadow and she realized that the day had been lost from her. 

She contemplated screaming, but quickly decided that it would be unwise. If any of the gold cloaks heard her scream... or worse, if Joff himself woke up because of her... she would pay for it. 

Sansa stayed quiet, but she swiftly reached for the grip of a blade, which she knew was resting at the crook between her nightstand and featherbed. The dagger she’d managed to get off of ser Dontos for the price of a kiss on the cheek. She didn’t know where he’d gotten it, but she knew that she needed _something _to protect herself. It was perfect for incidents exactly as these... aside from the fact that she didn’t know how to use it.

As Sansa was twisting herself back upright, her legs hanging off of the edge of the bed, the man moved before her quickly... until he stood directly in front of her. Sansa held her dagger pointed out as firmly as she could, but her fingers were already beginning to sweat around the grip. 

When he reached out and grabbed her round the wrists, the possibilities of using her little knife were all but withered away. 

“What’s this?” he pulled the blade away from her. “Has the little bird learned how to defend herself properly?”

_ The Hound._ Sansa exhaled, somewhat comforted that it was only him and not Ser Meryn or someone else who would do her _true_ harm. But why was he here? She held her wrists taught under his grip, and gulped when he pointed the blade at her. _Does he mean to hurt me? _she began to wonder, unsure of whether or not this was just another drunken ruse. It wouldn’t have been the first time he threatened her. 

After no response, Sandor Clegane cleared his throat. “Were you going to stab me, girl?” 

Sansa felt her face go warm and she was glad that he couldn’t see her blush. “No,” she muttered. 

The Hound looked at the knife carefully, the blade glinting briefly with moonlight when he flipped it to the other side. “You wouldn’t have done me much damage. Not with this pretty little blade,” he chuckled before sliding it across the floor, out of reach. 

Sansa was still seated, her legs still hanging over the edge, feet just meeting the floor. She shivered a little bit as she pondered what to say. “Ser Dontos thought that I should have it... to protect myself if someone would hurt me,” she explained. 

Sansa realized with embarrassment that she was still wrapped in his cloak. She hoped he couldn’t see the white wool. 

“Dontos,” Sandor Clegane mumbled, pondering. “You don’t mean that fool from the king’s nameday.” He lowered the knife. “If Joff finds out that you have this, you know what he’ll do.”

He was right, Sansa knew. She was finding it hard to breathe, much less come up with a response. “I...” she pushed her hair behind her ear. “It’s all I have to protect myself with.” 

The Hound was still. Where exactly had she expected _that_ appeal to bring her? He was one of the most skilled swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, obviously he wouldn’t understand a girl needing to protect herself... when it was so natural for him. 

The blade flipped around in his hands and he thrust it, grip first, out in front of her. 

_He’s giving it back, _Sansa realized, when she thought for sure that her protection was gone. She took it from him warily and went to tuck it back between the little space between her bed and night table. 

“Think that’s a good hiding spot, do you? Any one of Joff’s stupid shields could spot that from across the room. Hide it better, little bird, if that’s what you think your life depends on.”

Is _this _why he came? To lecture her about hiding spots? It was the middle of the night, for the gods’ sake. 

He took the blade from her once more, and slipped it between her mattress and the wooden frame that it sat. “Keep it close when you sleep, but you’ll have to keep it hidden from your chamber maids. They’re not your friends... but surely you know that.” 

Sansa nodded. “Why did you come here?” she asked, as surely (like she’d established), Sandor Clegane did not come into her bedchamber in the middle of the night to talk about knives. 

The Hound squatted down in front of her, and the moonlight _just _hit his cheek. 

“I’ve come for my thanks, little bird.” His head was below her own, but their faces were only inches apart. His chest was so huge... and the fabric of his tunic brushed against her knees, featherlight. 

_His_ _thanks, _she contemplated. He came to get his _thanks _in her bedchamber, in the middle of the night. Sansa shivered, and began to pull herself away from him, but he grabbed her by the shoulders first. 

“Don’t,” he rasped, almost seeming to trust her as he unclenched his hands... but that wasn’t right, because _he _wasn’t the vulnerable one. “I want only a song.”

Sandor Clegane trailed his hand over her the outside of her bare arm and heat coursed through her. _A song, _she thought. His voice was gravelly and it... well, it sort of _excited_ her. When he pushed a little closer, she was loathe to admit to herself that his smell didn’t revolt her. 

“A song,” Sansa repeated... and he bowed his head towards her lap. 

“That’s all, little bird,” he mumbled. 

The heat in Sansa’s belly made her think that maybe that wasn’t all _she_ wanted. His hands had fallen to either side of her, his fingers curled up loosely on his own cloak and not touching her. Did he know it was his cloak by touch alone? She lowered one of her hands carefully to touch his and a shiver ran up her arm at the contact. The skin on the back of his hand was coarse and warm. 

His eyes shot up to hers and his fists clenched, and every second that passed she waited for him to snatch his hands back and smack her for touching him... but that never happened. And rightfully, it couldn’t. He was the king’s dog, and he didn’t have a right to touch her... but while she knew that, she also knew that she couldn’t do anything to stop him. 

Sansa’s nerves wracked, being so close to him... but she was almost certain that she liked it. It felt good to touch him, if she was being honest, and the soft look in his eyes made her aware that he liked it too. She wondered what she might do if he just let her keep touching him all she wanted. She didn’t want to provoke him... though she suspected that he would not hurt her, after all he hadn’t _yet_. 

Sansa’s fingers trembled as she guided the tips of them to gently touch his broad shoulders. He wasn’t wearing any of his usual armor. It was odd to Sansa, to have him before her in a strange type of vulnerability. She knew she would never be able to fend him off (with armor or without it, he was still much stronger than her) but still she lacked the awareness to be afraid. _When was the last time anyone saw him without his armor?_ To have him on his knees before her, with no armor on, no defenses apart from his strength... and that look in his eyes... Sansa felt very much in control. 

As she brushed his shoulders through his tunic with her fingertips, he curled his fingers into her a little harsher, his own fingertips now digging into her soft flesh through her shift. Sansa wasn’t sure what emotion he was conveying when he dug his fingers into her. She thought he may have been trying to reject her touch, but he soon moved. He bowed his head down a little more though, and now his crown was towards her breasts. 

“I will,”  Sansa said gently. “I will sing for you... _Sandor_.” Saying his true name out loud brought a new, nervous feeling in her belly. 

His gaze fell from her face and his eyes closed completely, and Sansa took that to mean that he’d liked it too. After a moment, his fingertips ghosted slowly onto her hips, pressing into the fabric a little sharper than she would’ve liked, but she hadn’t the nerve to stop him. His forehead dipped into her middle and pressed against her breasts. 

Sansa shuddered. The intimacy of the situation was more than she’d been prepared for, but that didn’t stop her from reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. It was closest she’d been to another person since everything had gone wrong on the Sept of Baelor, and she couldn’t speak for the last time he’d hugged someone. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? A hug? His shoulders were so big and broad and she had no right to feel as comfortable as she did, but when he dropped his head to her chest, Sansa knew that he wasn’t going to hurt her. 

With the last of her wits, she held back from wrapping her arms around him. It would’ve been incredible to share a real hug with _anyone_ at this point, but there was no way of telling what he would do if he felt threatened.

She decided to sing  _Florian and Jonquil_. Sansa hadn’t forgotten when he referred to the lovers in the song as “a fool and his cunt,” but his presence was clogging her memory and she couldn’t think of any other songs.

Sansa straightened her back and let her hands relax on him, sliding them gently along his shoulders and his back. The Hound’s forehead dampened the fabric of her shift and she wondered why he was sweating since the room was so chilly. Her voice began slowly... because she hadn’t sang for anyone in so long and she was almost nervous that he was going to laugh at her, even though the folk from Winterfell always said her voice was lovely. But truly, she couldn’t even tell that Sandor Clegane was listening by how motionless he was, and her voice grew louder with her confidence. She caressed him gently through his tunic and over his bare neck, as though he were a child. 

Sandor Clegane didn’t move at all while she sang, save for the clenching and unclenching of his hands at her hips. 

Once Sansa had brought her song to an end, she looked down at him. She lifted a hand up to his hair and felt him _writhe_. Her senses heightened, now that she’d finished her song and could center her concentration on him. There was liquid on her shift, against her middle where his face had been. 

Hesitantly, she pushed her fingers through his dark hair, in an attempt to be kind while she tried to shove him off... but he wouldn’t budge.

“Sandor,” she said, her voice cutting the silence in the air crisply. There was something very wrong and she had no idea what to do about it. Why wasn’t he talking? Where had the venom in voice gone? His strength? 

Between her fingers she sorted his soft, fine hair gently, separating any knots. The hand that she had on his neck gently caressed him, back and forth over his tunic. The sensations piled up and he trembled again beneath her. 

He made a queer noise, and it sounded like he was choking. The hints of moonlight caught onto the scars on his cheek and Sansa could see clearly that they were glistening.She realized very abruptly that he was weeping. 

Sansa froze. _He’s... crying, _she thought, confused. She hadn’t the slightest idea of what to do about it. When she cried as a child, her parents held and comforted her... but Sansa didn’t know how the Hound would take to being held and comforted. Only, he couldn’t seem to let himself off of her. 

Sansa took a deep breath of courage. She’s comforted him before, that was true enough. On the night of the Hand’s Tourney... she’d put a hand on his shoulder, and he’d told her about his scars. 

_A hand on the shoulder_, Sansa thought, mimicking her thoughts with her own hand while she fashioned something comforting to say. His tunic was soft under the gentle stroke of her fingers, but before she could come up with a proper thing to say he was pulling away from her. 

Sandor Clegane hovered over her, braced on his arms with his face right above hers. She could see at once that he _had _been crying, for his eyes were wet and puffy swollen. The look on his face was lethal and for a long moment she thought he meant to do her harm.

He was so close and she could smell the cheap soap on his hair. He was _so close_, and she entertained the curiosity that he was going to kiss her. Sansa closed her eyes anxiously as she awaited her fate, but neither harm nor a kiss came. Instead, he was backing away from her. 

“No,” Sansa said quietly, reaching out and grabbing his arm before she could silence or stop herself. 

Sandor Clegane looked at her, evident confusion written all over his face. He opened his mouth to say something, she thought, but before that was possible Sansa leapt up and pressed her lips onto his.

It was brief and impulsive and his lips were tight, and when she pulled back Sansa was quite sure that he was going to make her pay for her boldness. 

Her _treason, _rather. _Gods, _what had she done? She was Joff’s _betrothed_, and though she wanted him dead for the execution of her father, kissing the king’s dog was like to get her executed as well. But... Sandor Clegane seemed to have different opinions on the matter regarding her treason. 

He pushed her back on the bed gently and hovered over her. What had been meant as a little kiss had seemed to become more than she bargained for as he braced an arm beside her head, both feet planted on the floor as he pressed his body to hers. 

Sansa put a hand warily against the normal side of his face and he leaned into her palm. Briefly he glanced at her and when she saw his eyes her heart fell. They were welled up with tears. 

She stumbled frantically inside her head for something to say as obviously the kiss hadn’t helped, but nothing came to her mind. Before she could think too hard about it he was lowering his fingers to her chin. As he closed his eyes, the few tears spilled onto her cheeks... and then his lips were pressed to hers again. 

It was the middle of the night and a man had snuck into her room and Sansa worried about whether or not she was kissing him well, like the princesses in the songs. She’d forgotten about the tears on his face in truth, because there was a fire in her belly as there’d been one on his face and she could hardly get a breath out between them.

Sansa raised her hands to his neck and shoulder, and she felt his grip in her hair. 

The Hound’s lips were soft, apart from the burned corner. His face was scruffy and it pricked and tickled her skin as their lips collided and parted slowly. The sensation of his breeches was queer against her bare legs, but it only made her warmer.

Sansa honestly couldn’t tell whether or not he was still crying, but she was too scared to open her eyes to find out. The insides of her legs were getting so hot, she had to open them ever so slightly to keep herself comfortable. 

It was enough for him to press down harder, until she felt a stiff _something _against her lower belly. The feeling made her ache terribly on the inside but the pressure of his body against hers helped, and she opened her legs a little further to get some more of that relieving pressure. 

Sandor didn’t really seem to like that... He jerked back away from her and looked down between them, and that’s when she realized just how far her shift had ridden up. Sansa scrambled to cover herself, feeling like she was going to cry as she pulled the fabric tightly over her knees. 

Sandor Clegane panted as he stared at her with eyes dark and full of something unfamiliar. Sansa watched him intently as he took slow steps backward from her and her bed. 

He took a good, long look at her and before she could act, he turned and fled from her bedchamber. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor staggered back to his chambers, his cock aching all the way. He was struggling to believe that any of that just happened. He even wished that he hadn’t gotten so buggering drunk before visiting her, because then he wouldn’t have to wonder if it was all really just a dream tomorrow when he woke up. 

He had gone to the little bird’s room for something, but...  _that_... wasn’t what he expected to happen at all. He had gotten so drunk on mulled wine in the hours before winding up in Sansa’s room that he truly didn’t know what to expect when he got there. Sandor  _did_ intend to go to her, but— He didn’t want to think about it anymore. The appeal of the wine skin on his night table increased by the second, but his body was creating a more... _persuasive_ situation.

_Hells_, she’d fucking kissed him. _Lady_ Sansa Stark kissed him right on the mouth, purely of her own accord. She’d touched him and stroked his hair as well, but the kiss... _fuck_, that kiss. Her lips were so soft and gentle, almost as welcoming as the spread of her legs beneath his hips. Sandor could hardly fucking believe that she’d opened her legs for him, even if it was all subconscious.

What he’d expected from her bedroom he couldn’t say, but what he’d gotten exceeded his expectations by leagues. Sandor was only going to... scare her. He was going to scare her because even after nearly being raped and killed she still had the nerve to wander around the keep unaccompanied. What in the hells was she thinking? Didn’t she know by now that she wasn’t safe here? Countless beatings, countless murders of innocent smallfolk when Joff was _bored, _and her head still seemed to remain just as thick. Except for that little knife...

Sandor was only going to make sure that she knew the kinds of people she was dealing with in this buggering city. She had a little blade, and that was fine and good, _if only she could protect herself for true_. How far would Joff go if he found out his little bride was keeping a knife tucked in her bedchamber?

_No, none of that_, Sandor thought. All he wanted to think about were her lips touching his and the feel of her hands on his shoulders. Neither were customs he was familiar with, and both made him ache helplessly from head to toe. He pulled lazily at knotted laces as he stuffed his free hand down his breeches.

Sandor approached his featherbed and rolled the fabric down around his ankles. _Too much bloody wine_, he thought as he tripped over the crumpled fabric at his toes. 

The cloth moving down against his cock was the most relief he’d gotten all night, and he tilted his head back a moment to revel in the pleasure. No sooner when he was on the bed did he sit on his haunches, close his eyes and begin to pass his hand back and forth. _Little bird, _he thought hazily, drunk on not only wine, but lust. _His _little bird, who’d put her pretty fingers in his hair and _kissed_ him. 

And that was another thing! Sandor could hardly fucking taste her because the tang from the wine was so thick in his mouth. What was he going to to do if she wanted another kiss from him? He ought to stop drinking so much, he knew, but he wouldn’t be starting that resolution tonight. Nor tomorrow... and probably not the eve after that, if he was being true. 

He admitted to himself that she wasn’t really  _his_ little bird. She belonged to the boy-king, same as he. Them and everyone else in  King’s Landing were little more Joffrey’s puppets, and no title in front of a house name could change that. Not _Stark_, not even _Lannister_, and certainly not fucking _Clegane_. 

_To hell with them all,_ Sandor thought. _To hell with their buggering_ titles. He didn’t have second thought for anyone besides the little bird, in truth... but the thoughts that he _did_ have about her were treasonous at best and lethal at worst. The fake bloody _gods_ knew what he’d do if Joff tried to lay a hand on her. 

Sandor laughed and his hand halted. He was little more than a lovesick fool, ready to lay down his life for a little red headed lady all because she’d given him a few of her kisses. _A fucking jape_, he thought; he couldn’t even fuck himself properly now, and it was all her fault. _Bugger me_.

_No, bloody bugger_ her. _This is the little bird’s fucking fault._ Damn her for making him feel this way, for making his chest ache and his belly warm at the _same_ time. Sandor had a headache, though because of her or the wine he wasn’t sure. It felt better to blame her. 

If he had even the shred of a wit, Sandor would stay away from her. But that was certainly never going to happen, because, if he didn’t protect her who the hell else would? Joff’s Kingsguard? No bloody way; if anything, _they_ were who he needed to protect her from. 

Sandor thought of her face. He imagined her great blue eyes and _perfect_ fucking smile. Would she like it if he swore her those pretty protection vows? She loved knights and songs, and he could picture her smile as result of his words... and maybe she’d sing him another song—

Sandor cursed, pushing his hand over his cock. A needlelike sensation seemed to poke him from the inside out. _Florian and Jonquil, _he remembered, trying his best to pull the memories of her voice out for a replay. 

What an idiot he’d been to cry in front of her like that— _hells, on_ her like that. Sansa didn’t want him. Nobody wanted him, not a soul in the Seven kingdoms, and certainly not her. He ought to loathe her for it.. but that was ridiculous, and either way he wasn’t capable of hating her.

And despite his best efforts she obviously didn’t hate him. The little bird was too... she was too _good_, to hate him. Too naive, too gentle and too forgiving. He’d held a fucking blade to her throat on those damned Serpentine steps and she didn’t even seem to care. It was jarring, and it boiled Sandor’s blood. 

Only... there was one bit of information that he couldn’t let loose from his head. When he’d walked in... walked up to her... Sansa had been wrapped up in his white cloak. Heinous as it was, and probably ripe in her delicate nose, it was still _his_ cloak. And she’d been wearing it. He’d gotten on his damned knees at this sight of that, _big tough dog_ that he was. 

Sandor concentrated his best on how her hand had felt clasped over his, though the wine in his belly was muddling everything. Sandor remembered how gentle she was, and how soft her hair had been. Was his hair just as soft under her fingers? And did she think him a good kisser? Her touch alone had made him feel so precious... and he had half a mind to stalk right back to her bedchamber and question her thoroughly as to what had happened between them not an hour ago. 

Sandor’s hand was aching quite a bit. If he didn’t get his pleasure soon, sleep might take him instead. He rolled onto his back. 

The memory of crying against her shift was distant, but closer was the memory that she’d comforted him. When was the last time anyone had seen him cry? Sandor couldn’t think of a single one. But the little bird... she’d comforted him through it. He would have to make it up to her. From now on, he would protect her. Sandor would be a shield for her in action if not so much in... words. Vows he couldn’t do, but it was perfectly in his power to detour to her bedchamber every night, just from the outside, to make sure that no one was doing her Harm. 

_To make sure that no one was doing her harm. _He was utterly fucked. 

If Joff heard a fucking _word _of this, if he or the rest of his shields _saw _anything, Sandor could expect nothing less than both his and the little bird’s heads on spikes, mounted side by side. And likely that wasn’t all they’d go through, if the king’s sadism was any indication. He ripped limbs from smallfolk for no reason, surely he would do much more if he caught his _lady _kissing his _dog_. 

_Later,_ he thought. The little euphoria that he got from spending was much needed. It would make sleep come easier, Sandor knew, and also he didn’t want the ache that came when release didn’t. 

He took his mind back to Sansa’s hands, how her narrow fingers felt against his knuckles... and how they slid over the back of his neck and wove gently through his hair. His hair was more than due for a wash, but she didn’t seem to mind and for that he was grateful.

Her hair had been a fine silk around his own hands. Everything about her had been perfect; the way she moved was _perfect_, his white cloak on her bed was _perfect_, he could hardly fucking see her face in the darkness, but still he knew it to be perfect. Sandor wondered if she thought him half as satisfactory as he thought her. 

It made him ache harder to think about actually _being in _her bed with her... To think about her soft fingers touching him in all the places he wanted her to, when all of his clothes were off. Sandor wondered what it would be like to have her stroke his bare chest, or his stomach... or his thighs, or his damned _cock_. The flush on her cheeks when she did so was effortlessly imagined in his mind.

_So proper. _On most occasions her insistence of propriety was annoying, but if they shared a bedchamber... that would be a setting in which he wouldn’t have minded nearly as much. Although, Sandor thought she could probably admit to being a little killer in their imagined bedchamber and he wouldn’t have batted an eye. 

Did she touch herself half so often as he did? Sandor wondered, taking in a massive breath and holding it. Did she touch herself at all, for that matter? He wondered whether or not she knew how, whether or not she knew where her fingers were supposed to go in order to make herself writhe.

In truth, he would’ve liked to know himself. Did she know about the little nub? And how many fingers did she use on herself? Sandor wondered helplessly if she stroked her teats, and then he spent on his belly. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was getting too long to continue but there’ll be more soon :)
> 
> **Trigger warning!!** Mild dubious consent & threats of sexual assault.

Ch. 4

The following few days were not so eventful. The only times that Sansa saw the Hound, he was walking with Joffrey.

She took a walk out of the Red Keep and began towards the Godswood, letting the thoughts freely flow all the way there.

Sansa didn’t dare sending a look in his direction in front of Joffrey. Joffrey would take pleasure in torturing or executing the Hound at even the slightest notion that Sansa enjoyed his presence. Sure, the Hound was Joffrey’s sworn shield but Sansa knew how ecstatic he became when he caused others’ pain. And Sansa was one of his favorite toys.

Sansa used to think she _loved_ Joffrey. She had sought out any redeemable quality that the boy might’ve possessed right up until he removed her lord father’s head from his shoulders.

_Oh_, Sansa whimpered softly as she felt emotions rush up to that old wound. She had been so excited to come to King’s Landing and marry the prince. She thought it really was a dream at first, but she had woken up to a nightmare. Joffrey is a monster. He always had been, Sansa was just too blind to see it.

She wasn’t too blind to see it anymore, though. Now that Sansa had been hardened- forced to wake up from her fantasies and grow up- She knew that Joffrey would go out of his way to hurt her and she didn’t want to give him any motives. She certainly didn’t want the Hound to be harmed because of her.

Despite knowing the dangers of all of this, Sansa still wanted to feel the way that she had when he touched her. The Hound was the first person who’d ever touched her like that. Maybe Sansa only wanted to be _touched_\- maybe it wasn’t really about the Hound himself, but it didn’t matter. He touched her, she liked it, and she wanted him to do it again.

Sansa felt a bit stuck though. She couldn’t just ask him to... _touch_ her. Septa Mordane wasn’t around to counsel her, but Sansa was quite sure that ladies didn’t engage in promiscuous activities like that. _Ladies_ only lay with their _husbands_. Sansa could not lay with the Hound even if she wanted to- she was to be Joffrey’s wife. 

Though, Sansa was having a hard time resisting the desires to experience more. She imagined that if she offered herself to the Hound, he’d _surely_ take her. How much would her _virtue_ mean to him? 

Sansa sat down on an arrangement of rocks in the Godswood, staring out at the massive weirwood tree. She thought about how many women the Hound must’ve been with and cringed. She wondered if he ever cared for a woman... or, well, if he ever cared for _anyone_. It occurred to Sansa then that he probably hadn’t. She couldn’t see him caring for anyone, and she truly couldn’t see anyone caring for him. She suspected that if anyone ever had tried to be gentle with him, he probably pushed them away. Sansa suspected then that the Hound had probably paid for any and all intimate relations that he’d ever had.

The realization made Sansa pity him, truly. She wondered when the last time he’d experienced any sort of _love_ was, if ever. She wondered what type of existence anyone could maintain without love. _Surely_ _not_ _a_ _happy_ _one_, Sansa thought to herself. _But_ _the_ _Hound_ _isn’t_ _happy_. _He’s_ _always_ _so_ _angry_ _and_ _miserable_. She wondered what he might be like if he did have someone to love.

Though Sansa didn’t have to put too much effort into empathizing with the Hound, since she was constantly surrounded by people who hated her in King’s Landing. Maybe the sadness that they both felt wasn’t so different. 

Sansa thought she could offer him something, and he might be able to offer her something in return. She could allow him some love that he didn’t have to pay for. She liked touching him a few nights ago, she could do it again.

_No_, Sansa exhaled deeply and hugged herself. It was a cold eve outside and she hadn’t brought a cloak. She only sat in a white dress with a thin, pink robe over it. Sansa was beside herself in frustration. She could not give _anything_ to the Hound. Not because she didn’t want to, but because Joffrey would have them both _killed_.

However- thinking about all of the choices that she didn’t have, that she never truly had... well, it made her want to break the rules and do it anyway.

Sansa couldn’t believe any of this, she was disgusted with herself for these feelings. She couldn’t believe how much time she had already spent thinking about the Hound, but she couldn’t help wondering if he was also thinking of her.

The thought of them together made Sansa feel a bit dizzy and light-headed. She knew it was wrong for a lady to have these desires, but she just... _did_. She _did_ have these desires.

And was that really so _wrong_? Sansa’s life didn’t depict a happy future. She might be the “Queen”, but being the queen wouldn’t be worth it if the king at her side was _Joffrey_. Sansa would gladly choose _Sandor_ _Clegane_ over a life of being tortured and _defiled_ by the boy who ordered for her lord father’s head.

She wondered what her life would look life if she wed Sandor. Would they hold the Clegane Keep? Or would he take her back to Winterfell. Sansa couldn’t help it, she swooned at the idea of being the Lady of Winterfell. The more that she thought about these fantasies, the more she didn’t _want_ them to be fantasies. It was truly ridiculous- the notion that she could ever wed Sandor, but it brought her more comfort than the idea of marrying Joffrey and bearing his monstrous golden-haired children. 

She scolded herself, now. Sansa had no choice in the matter. She would marry Joffrey and she would be forced to let him defile her as many times as he wanted to. She scolded herself for dreaming up more fantasies, when she knew now that dreams don’t come true in Westeros, no matter how _honorable_ you are.

The black of the night surrounded her now as she sat in the Godswood. Sansa had been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she’d forgotten how long she’d sat out there. She never even prayed, but she hadn’t been praying much lately anyway since her Gods had stopped listening.

Sansa stood up and used the moonlight to guide her back into the Red Keep. She trailed through the long halls and clattered her feet against the stone steps. She was about to reach her chambers when a rough hand clamped around her wrist.

Sansa couldn’t help herself now, she opened her mouth to cry out but the figure twirled her around smoothly- as though a dance- so that her back was against him while his other hand covered her mouth.

“Keep quiet, girl, do you want us both to be killed?” Sansa recognized the gravelly voice as the one that belonged to the Hound. He leaned against the wall with her back pressed to his front. They were right next to the door of Sansa’s bedchambers.

Again, he expressed his roughness to her in place of the tenderness that she knew he possessed. Sansa wasn’t sure that he knew how to behave in any other way. She believed that after the way he’d been treated for all of his life, anger must be the only thing he could convey.

She knew it, but she couldn’t help be scared by him. He was so massive and strong. Surely he would be less intimidating if he were nicer to her, but he wasn’t. She knew that he was gentle on the insides, or she thought that she did, but he never let himself go. 

_Yes_\- he scared her, but he seemed to be moved by her touch. Sansa could tell she had some great effect on him. The way that he submitted when she touched him made him much less intimidating.

Sansa was pinned in the position he held her in, but her right hand was free. She brought that hand up and cupped his own right hand- the one that was over her mouth.

After just a moment, Sansa felt his right hand loosen on her mouth and his left hand withdraw from her wrist. Sansa gripped his hand firmly and slowly tugged it away from her mouth. He let her go entirely despite how good her figure felt pressed against him.

Sansa turned around to look up at his face, illuminated in the bits of moonlight that poured into the hall. His scars still scared her, though the unburnt side of his face looked fine. His silky, dark hair framed it well and she felt shaky at the realization that she found herself attracted to him.

“Why are you outside my chambers... Sandor?” His name still felt very alarmingly intimate to say, but she could tell that it pleased him.

Sandor definitely didn’t want to tell the little bird that he’d been guarding her chambers in case any fool thought he’d pay her a visit in the nighttime, so he didn’t answer her. Instead, he shifted the spotlight, ignoring her question altogether.

“What are you doing out of your chambers at this hour, little bird? Do you know what danger you’re putting yourself in by wandering around this late? You might be accustomed to _honorable_ northmen but you aren’t in the north anymore, little bird. It isn’t safe for-“

“I was in the Godswood,” Sansa interrupted. “You shouldn’t be here... Sandor... it isn’t wise,” Sansa stated.

She said it with such a coldness and firmness that made his heart sink. Sandor felt like a fool himself suddenly. He never should’ve let himself get his hopes up. It was true then- the little bird didn’t want him at all. He felt like a buggering _idiot_.

The Hound didn’t say anything for a while. He didn’t retort anything back at her. He would have, but he was too dumbfounded at hearing the little bird tell him that he was a fool to come crawling to her chambers again. He’d only come to stand outside her door, make sure she was safe throughout the night, but she didn’t even want his protection. 

“Aye, girl,” he nodded, stilling his body from a shiver of sadness. “I shouldn’t be here, but you shouldn’t be running around King’s Landing by yourself at night, either. Safer for me to walk around the Red Keep than it is for a pretty thing like you to wander around where I can’t protect you.”

_Shit_, he’d stated his intentions. He sounded possessive and he hoped he didn’t make the girl too much more uncomfortable than she clearly already was. 

“No, it isn’t safe for you,” Sansa said firmly, pressing her small hands into his upper arms, keeping him against the wall. “It isn’t safe for you to be here, Sandor.”

_It_ _wasn’t_ _buggering_ _safe_ _for_ _him_? How could the little bird reckon that was? And, _oh Gods_, her hands were on him. 

“Little bird,” the Hound began. He wanted to put his hands on her as well, to reciprocate the touch- but he couldn’t. He could barely move, it was one shocking blow after the other. First his anxiety about the little bird not being in her chambers this late, then her telling him he should leave and now her hands on him? Seemed a bit out of his control. The gentleness of her fingertips in his muscular arms relieved some of the pressure that was building up in his body.

“How could this not be safe for _me_?” Sandor meant to maintain the intense anger that he had approached her with, but she made him so nervous that his voice came out so much more gently than he intended.

“If _His_ _Grace_... finds out... about... _us_, then... he’ll kill us both,” Sansa choked out in a nervous whisper.

_Us? What did the little bird think was going on here?_ Sandor felt another jolt to his heart at the word. He hoped that this wasn’t a dream, that she truly thought there was something between them. _She was afraid that they would be killed? _That wasn’t what Sandor had thought the problem was.

Sandor wasn’t sure how to begin.

“Let me into your chambers, little bird,” he choked out. “I don’t want every cunt in King’s Landing to hear us.”

Sansa was taken off guard by the swear, but she quickly nodded in agreement- the secrecy of their.... _encounters_ was vital to her. She pulled her hands from him and opened her chamber door as quietly as she could. When it was open, she walked in and turned back to make sure that he was still behind her. After the Hound was in, Sansa closed the door again.

There was more light in the room this eve. _The moon is fuller tonight and she’ll be able to see my monstrous face_. The Hound could see much better than he could’ve last time he was here and a wave of insecurity and shame washed over him. He tried to stay out of the light that fell into the room moving to a cushioned chair by the little bird’s vanity.

“The king isn’t going to kill us just because I happened to stroll past your chambers,” Sandor told her.

Sansa held her skirts in fistfuls as she walked toward him. “No, not for that... but if he finds out that we... shared a kiss,” her palms were shaking a bit now. “Maybe he wouldn’t kill me, maybe he’d only kill _you_.”

The little bird had been thinking about him, too. Sandor wondered how well she could see him, hoping she wouldn’t see his blush.

He chuckled, “And how would he find that out, little bird? Am _I_ going to tell him?” Sandor pointed to himself.

Sansa looked as if she was going to cry, then she turned and fled to her bed. She stood on the side of it and began to take off her shoes as though he wasn’t even there. _What the buggering hells is she doing? Is she making for sleep?_

He stood up and followed her with his eyes. “Inviting me into your bed _already_, girl?” Sandor japed, forgetting immediately why he had the mind to say such a thing. It was a terrible jape. Not because of the crudeness of laying the little bird, but because he’d only humiliated himself by suggesting she would ever think to invite him anywhere _near_ her bed. 

Sansa gave him an angry expression. “You don’t understand,” she told him.

Sandor walked over to where she stood beside her bed.

“No, little bird, I don’t understand.” He said quietly as he moved to her, giving her a foot of space. 

It was obvious that Sansa was afraid to spit it out. “I know it’s stupid... but I don’t want anything to happen to you. You’re the only person in this city who has been kind to me,” Sansa admitted. 

_What is wrong with her that she could see me as anything relatively close to kind? _

Sandor found an anger suddenly and aggressively pushed her back and onto the bed, face up. He yanked her legs apart and went between them. A moment later, he placed his hands under her bottom and roughly thrust her up to his hips.

Despite the roughness, the collision felt intoxicating for both of them. Sansa knew that there weren’t many layers separating them and all he had to do to have her would be to pull down her smallclothes. When his hips ground against her, she felt a similar ache to the one that she felt the other night. She gasped immediately at the shock of him against her, but the sensation was so good that she couldn’t find her fear. 

“_Kind_?” He asked her. “Do you know why I came to your chambers the other night? I was going to _take_ you,” Sandor said. It was a disgusting lie, and he prided himself on his honestly- he’d told her so himself. But if it woke her up from whatever silly fantasies she’d been having then it was worth the pain it caused him to speak it. 

The Hound stood in between her thighs like he did the other eve- but she was fully alert this time. Her gown didn’t ride up her legs this time because of its length. Instead, it gathered in big bunches around her thighs and in front of her smallclothes.

Sansa began to hyperventilate, but she remembered how her lady mother used to help her calm down. She reminded herself that she wasn’t in any real danger. The Hound wouldn’t hurt her. Both of her arms were free, so she hesitantly brought her right hand to wrap around his wrist gently, remembering that he liked her touch.

She didn’t get the reaction that she wanted this time, though. Her touch had angered him instead. The Hound forcefully dug his fingers into soft flesh through her silky dress. His fingertips hurt against her bottom and she whimpered in pain.

“Are you _daft_? How could you still reach out to touch me after what I just said to you?” Sandor asked with disgust. He was disgusted with _himself_ though for the way he was treating her, not with the little bird herself. Though he was growing quickly with anger seeing that she still treated him softly after his vile actions. 

“You won’t hurt me,” she said with questionable confidence. 

Sandor was in disbelief at her words. She didn’t think he’d hurt her? He was hurting her _right_ _now_. It seemed she had so much trust in him, but where the hells was it coming from? 

_It would be so bloody easy_ _to just take her right now_. He wanted to throw her skirts over her belly and tear her smallclothes in two. He’d finally get his taste of her. 

He couldn’t though, when he thought about it. He felt ashamed at just the thought of her blood on his hands and he knew that if he’d managed to take her with force, he wouldn’t have to be caught by Joffrey. He’d fall on his own sword, unprovoked. _That was a cold thought_. He let go of her ass and it fell back onto the furs. He withdrew from her legs and walked to the other side of her bed. Once he was there, he sat on the edge and rolled over to lay on his back.

Sansa had rolled off of her featherbed the moment he let her go. She readjusted her clothes and turned to see him laying down.

“I would’ve, little bird, believe that. I’m not a good man- I’m not much better than those men who I saved you from.” His words came out so softly then. Sansa suspected that he wanted to be a better man. 

The Hound’s words made her want to weep. _He really does hate himself_, she realized.

She didn’t know what he wanted or expected her to do, but she climbed into her bed and set herself on her back a few inches away from him. 

She stayed there for a while, her nerves wracking at having a man so close to her in her featherbed. It was a risky move, but Sansa rolled over slowly and tucked her body against his left side and pressed her hand to his chest naturally. Her left leg draped over his body and she nuzzled against his side comfortably. 

“You don’t learn quickly, do you,” the Hound snarled, unable to hold back his disgust with himself. “You shouldn’t climb into bed with men who want to have you,” he advised bitterly. 

The hand that Sansa had on his chest twitched and she wondered why he thought he could speak to her like this. He was no knight or lord, he’d reminded her over and over. Yet here he was? Talking to not only a _lady_, but the future _Queen_?

“This is _my_ bed you’re in... _Sandor_,” she reminded him, returning the coldness. 

“Aye, girl, but if your sweet thigh gets any closer to my cock then I’m going to flip you onto your belly and _fuck_ you in _your _bed,” he warned. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii guys, the last line insinuated that there’d be something *more* in this chapter, but I took it down a different road. 
> 
> This chapter gets pretty emotional btw. 
> 
> I did write a few scenes that took it MUCH farther but I decided that I wanted their relationship to go a bit slower in this fic. A... _little_ slower, but not that much slower.

Ch. 5

Sansa’s leg twitched on top of him upon hearing his threatening words. She considered moving it away, but ultimately kept it on him with some sort of confidence. She turned her head up from his neck and looked at his face. His eyes were bottomless pits of deep grey.

He tried to make them look angry- he tried so hard to make himself look angry, she could tell- and it would’ve worked, but his soft shiver against her body loudly claimed the opposite. Sandor looked down at her a moment, searching for something but then returned to stare at the darkness along the wall opposite him, his breathing deep and heavy. 

Sansa laid her head against his shoulder again, her whole front motionless against his side. She trailed her left hand along his torso, as if she hadn’t even heard his threat. She moved her fingers over his chest, occasionally halting or digging them into him deeply as though she was remembering his vile words.

“Why do you _say _such things to me?” Sansa asked him, her hand suddenly limp.

Sandor clasped his big hand over her own. She thought it may be a tender notion at first but as he clamped onto it, she realized he was trying to stop her from stroking him. 

“I’m telling you as it is, little bird. If you come anywhere near my cock, I’ll roll on top of you and fuck you senseless,” he told her. 

Sansa kept her body taut against him, scared to move- but also feeling a wave of cockiness take control of her. A wave of... something... _else_ followed as well. If she pulled away, she’d be letting him prove that he scared her. He _did things _that scared her, but he was a much less scary man than he thought he was, or _pretended to be. _

And even if he _did _scare her- what he told her was a _lie! _The Hound had many chances to take her, but he never did. He was _in her bed _now, but he still didn’t force her to give herself to him. He told her he would do these _things _to her, but she was quite sure that he wouldn’t. She would not test him by touching him anyway, though. She suspected that he would restrain from her, but Sansa had been told that men were unpredictable when their blood was up. 

“I thought that a hound would never lie to you,” she challenged him, pressing her fingertips into his chest yet again. 

”What makes you think it’s a lie, girl?” Sandor laughed bitterly. It amused him that she’d remembered his words. He pulled his hand off of hers and brought it behind his head. “And how do I know you don’t _want _it? You rub against me now after I told you to stop, told you what would happen- and I felt you the other eve, pulling me between your legs. _Hells_, you were in my buggering _Kingsguard_ cloak when I came in that night.”

Sansa’s cheeks reddened, realizing that he had seen the cloak around her. _It’s true,_ Sansa contemplated. She was acting very... _inviting_. She liked that she was pushing him, but now there was unwanted stigma. 

Sansa propped herself up so that she could brush his hair out of the burnt side of his face. She traced her fingers against his head, slipping them across his skin and through his fine, silky hair. Once she’d brushed all of it away, she tilted her lips down to place a kiss on his cheek. 

_An innocent kiss from the little lady- hells_, a shudder ran through Sandor’s body, starting from his neck where she’d kissed him and traveling to his toes quickly.

Sansa laid her head back down on his shoulder and caressed his chest freely. “Because I’m _telling_ you that I _don’t_ want you to do... _that_ to me. I think that I should only... hold you... right now,” she mumbled, sounding tired. “I want you to hold me back,” she whispered. 

Sandor hesitantly looked down at her and shivered at the sight of her nestled on him so comfortably. His leg twitched suddenly, reminding him that he was, _again, _hard as a rock. _Aye_, for a moment, the little bird’s gentleness had made him forget about his cock. 

Though.. _that moment was over._ Every_ fiber_ ached for her and there was too much time and too little space between them for him to do irreversible things.

Sandor made to leave the bed. “Alright, girl, but I have to piss,” he told her not softly but not entirely curtly. 

As he was halfway out of Sansa’s door he said, “Don’t fall asleep, little bird.”

*****

Sandor walked down the hall for a moment until he was sure he was private. He didn’t have to_ piss, _but he knew the little bird would respond more calmly to that than she would had he told her his blood was up and he needed to _relieve_ himself. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to draw his pleasure out for an hour, dreaming of the little bird in his arms. He had only a few minutes so that he could go back to actually _being_ in the little bird’s arms. Aye, in his dreams, she was holding him under different circumstances. 

Sandor rolled his eyes at the image in his head and stroked himself quickly. He knew that if he’d spent himself here he wouldn’t have to fight his urge every moment to rip off all of Sansa’s clothes and take his pleasure out on her. 

The girl was right. He would rather fall on his sword than rape her. No _urge _that he had would influence him to do anything to her that she didn’t ask him to do. _Hells_, he might even deny her if she _did_ ask him to take her, if only to keep their heads attached to their necks. 

Aye- at the most, he would relieve the little bird with his fingers and his tongue, but he might as well beg the king to chop off his head if he went farther than that.

He’d felt a swarm of emotions once she said she wanted to _hold_ him. First he wanted to laugh, because it _must’ve_ been a jape. Who in their right fucking mind wanted to _hold_ _him_? No one even wanted to look at him, but this girl expected him to believe that she wanted his touch. 

Then Sandor had wanted to weep _again, _though he took care not to overwhelm her with his unpredictable emotions like he’d done the other eve. He couldn’t help the impulse to cry though, he’s just a man- and he’s had a _lot_ to weep about. He was more surprised that he _hadn’t_ wept in her arms like a babe. 

Not only had no one ever told Sandor they _wanted_ to hold him, no one ever _had_. He wasn’t even sure if his mother had held him. If she had, she was gone before he’d been able to make a memory of it and his father certainly never brought up anything of the sort. His father had hardly ever given him so much as a pat on the back. 

Though if he had- in truth, Sandor didn’t think it would’ve made a difference. He wanted a woman’s touch. He thought that fucking was the only means by which to receive it, which is another reason why the girl’s words stunned him so. 

He was quick to fear the little bird’s words as well, though. Sandor was scared of her touch. When he’d heard her tell him that she wanted to hold him, it _terrified_ him. Though once he realized he was terrified of just holding the little bird, he could barely think about fucking her. 

In truth, he didn’t even want to call it “fucking” when he thought about it because it would _never_ be just a fuck with her. If he’d laid the little bird and then had to leave her, he might _truly_ fall on his own sword. Sandor would not take Sansa’s maidenhead and be done with her. Even if she wasn’t a maiden- he would not simply fuck her and then leave. If Sansa Stark let him _fuck_ her, then she would be his. If she opened to him, he would never let her away again. 

Sandor didn’t only want to have the little bird in bed, he wanted to have her in every way that he possibly could. He suddenly thought of Sansa with their babe in her belly and he felt like he’d been stabbed in the chest. He had thought of it before in truth, but he’d always thought of it tragically. After his whole life had gone tragically, it was difficult to imagine anything ending relatively well for him or anyone else unlucky enough to wander into his life. Sandor thought he might be cursed for a moment, but then laughed away the bitter notion. 

_And what had she meant_ “I only want to hold you ‘_right now_’”? Sandor wasn’t desperate enough to think that Sansa had been having dreams about him as he had been having of her, but the implication was there. A part of her _wanted... him_. 

She wasn’t even hiding it. She came out and said she’d wanted to touch him.

He spilled at the mere _thought _of her hands on him. 

Sandor sighed into the crisp air, feeling so much more at ease now that his blood was cooling. At least now he felt like it was safe for the little bird that he be in her proximity. He laced himself back up and began his walk back to her chambers. 

He’d taken a lot longer than a piss should’ve taken and he knew it. Maybe the girl thought he wandered all the way out of the Red Keep to make water, but that would’ve been pushing it- since there was absolutely no reason for him to do that. 

Sandor stood in front of her chambers again now, thinking of all of this horseshit he’d just conjured up into his mind. He’d tried to pause his emotions for so many years, but it was over now. He didn’t want to be a _dog_ anymore. 

He blinked a rebellious tear down his cheek and brushed it away with his forefinger. He knew he’d have to leave all of these emotions at Sansa’s door, not daring to plague her with these terrible feelings. He shuddered suddenly and opened up her door. 

“Little bird?” Sandor called out for her, barring the door and walking towards her featherbed. “Are you still awake?”

Sansa stretched out her limbs thoroughly and they shook before she relaxed them again. “Yes, but I’m sleepy, Sandor.”

_She didn’t even hesitate to say it this time_, he noted to himself. Sandor leaned over the bed and saw that the little bird was all tangled up in... his Kingsguard cloak. 

Oh, _gods_. Was she doing this on _purpose_? _There were furs on the bed already_, he thought. Surely the girl had made it a point bring his cloak out of wherever she’d been hiding it and wrap herself up in the mere _minutes_ he’d been gone. _Had she retrieved it because he mentioned it before he left?_

He just stood there watching her before she spoke to him again. 

“Will you... hold... me now?” Sansa asked him, bringing her glazed, heavy eyes up to his and opening up her arms to him. He noticed that the girl had also changed into her sleep shift in his absence.

Sandor hesitated and took a breath before climbing onto the bed and moving to lay against her right side. He was the one on his side now, but in truth, he didn’t know what she expected him to do. He wasn’t sure what types of touches were only for fucking and which were for these... unnamable encounters. He was looking for the words to ask her but thankfully she moved first. 

Sansa shifted and curled into him, hurling the cloak up so that it could partially cover him. It was a big cloak, big enough to fit _Sandor_, but it wasn’t exactly big enough for two. Sandor felt warm, never having thought of sharing his cloak with anyone before. 

He brought out his right arm to hook and pull her warmth against him. Sansa nuzzled her head into his tunic and tucked her arm around his middle, digging her knee in between his legs at the same time. If they had been face-to-face- her knee would’ve been rubbing against his cock and his blood would’ve come for him all over again, but they weren’t. They were face-to-chest and so her knee stayed clear of him. 

_It felt good there though anyway_, he was surprised to learn. The whole experience of being... _held..._ felt so intimate and incredible. Sandor would be embarrassed to admit it so he didn’t say a word. He didn’t want to ruin it- though the little bird could’ve noticed his enjoyment if she looked for it. 

He lowered his lips to brush a kiss on her forehead before combing her hair in his fingers, securing her place against his chest. Sansa wiggled her toes over and over against his legs and she kneaded her fingers into his sides. 

She murmured something softly against his chest but he was so focused on her fingers and toes poking at him that he couldn’t hear her. He tried to ask what she said, but when he looked down at her, she had started towards her dreams. Her lips were parted and they were emitting the most _ladylike_ snores and her eyelashes were fluttering gently. 

She took his breath away, even in her sleep. 

Sandor held himself together as long as he possibly could before unwillingly succumbing to his emotions. He’d been biting back the sobs for what felt like ages, but they were piling up on him and he couldn’t keep them back anymore. 

He felt such relief when she touched him so innocently like that. It was so comforting and gentle and loving; it drew out so many emotions that he’d blocked away. He felt wanted for the first time since he could remember, even if the little bird didn’t want him when the sun came up. The emotional relief was too much and he felt his unburnt cheek wet with tears, soon dripping down to his neck. 

_Buggering_ _hells_, Sandor couldn’t fuck her. He couldn’t even put his arms around her without having some _breakdown_. He knew he couldn’t exactly help his feelings, though. 

Sandor thought of what it would be like to actually fuck her and began to have unsettling ideas. The possibility that he would lay with the little bird and then _sob_ like this on top of her was a notion that he wanted to ban from his mind, but he couldn’t. 

Sansa was deep asleep now, so he let his tears continue falling down his face and drip around her for a while, hitting her temples and soaking up into her hair. And when her hair felt too damp, he took his hands from her to shake some tears off his face, rolling onto his other side and curling into himself. 

There was no simple solution when his sobs took control over his body and he started trembling against her bed.

He was about to throw himself out of her warm bed and back to his chambers when she woke up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okok so this chapter is similar to chapter 2 as far as vulnerability and fear. 
> 
> After I’d been writing it for a while, I thought of the episode in the show (I believe in season 5) where one of the unsullied visits a brothel just to be snuggled and sang to. He gets his throat slit, which I didn’t care for- that will NOT be happening in my fic lol. 
> 
> It reminded me a LOT of Sandor when I saw it and I related to it a lot on what I wrote of Sansa’s end, since I grew up with a verrrry cuddly relationship with my mother. 
> 
> I remember having cuddling with a few people who had never been cuddled before. I couldn’t believe that their mothers hadn’t cuddled them like mine had, and they couldn’t believe how fulfilling it was to cuddle with someone. Lol, it was nice to say the least. 
> 
> Anyway, lol, I just think cuddling is important and I felt like Sandor needed to experience it. 
> 
> Hopefully you all get the cuddles you deserve with the people you deserve :)


	6. Chapter 6

Ch. 6

Sansa shot up from the bed and turned to Sandor. She had no idea what was wrong that could make him cry like this- his chest heaved deep, shaky breaths and he looked like he was trembling to his core. Sansa wasn’t sure he even noticed her wake up because of how captivated he was in his emotions.

He was sitting up on her featherbed and she reached out immediately to squeeze him. Sansa hadn’t even had time to be afraid, she acted impulsively. She had no idea what was wrong, but she thought that if she she held him he might not feel so alone in whatever grief he was experiencing.

“Sandor,” she said, wrapping around his left side and gripping him tightly. “It’s okay,” she comforted, rubbing his back.

Sandor froze up instantly at her contact. His chest heaved one last time, but then he was so caught off guard he forgot to breathe for a few moments. He hadn’t known how long she’d been watching , and now he was torn open, spread out on a platter for her against his will- like he’d peeled off all of his layers and bore his soul before her.

Though nothing good would come of him revealing all sorts of shite to her. He’d always dealt with this on his own. That’s where he should be: alone in his chambers with a wine skin and sharpened dagger. 

“Don’t touch me,” he tried to snarl but the words didn’t come out aggressively at all.

Sandor didn’t really want them to come out aggressively though. He just sat there when he said it, too, not moving out of her arms or even shifting his body. He let his own arms rest in his lap and turned his head to the right so that she couldn’t see him.

Sansa suspected that he didn’t truly want her to let go of him, but she did as he bade her anyway. She sat with her legs crossed facing his side and brought her hands down to her knees.

“Why are you crying?” she asked calmly.

Sandor didn’t answer, he just sat very still and faced away from her. He had been able to stop crying now, probably too shocked by her consciousness. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” Sansa reached out her right hand to caress his forearm through his tunic. “But I don’t think it would be wise for you to sleep in here-“

“Why are you doing this?” Sandor turned to seek out her eyes in the darkness.

Sansa withdrew her fingers from him. “Why am I doing  _what_?” she asked, confused.

He wasn’t sure if she was actually so clueless or if she was trying to play innocent. Trying to ease some of his frustration, he palmed over his thighs roughly and stared at her. 

“Why are you whispering sweet things to me and asking me to lay with you?” Sandor asked her curiously. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that you want me anywhere  _near_ your bed.”

He wasn’t fishing for anything, he was serious. Aye, he’d made that comment about her  _wanting it_ but that was to scare her into keeping her distance. He’d had those wild thoughts about how perhaps by some blessing from those _gods_ he hated so much that she might want him, but it was absolutely fucking absurd. There was nothing even _relatively_ appealing about him- and if that wasn’t enough on its own, he was the absolute opposite of the little bird’s  _true knights_.

In truth, Sansa hadn’t thought about any of this like he apparently had. She didn’t have any hidden motives- she just did what she wanted to do. What  _felt_ right. It was easy with Sandor... she was attracted to him and he seemed to be attracted to her as well, though now she wasn’t so sure.

“I don’t understand... I only wanted to...” Sansa struggled in her search for what to say. “I like you here... in my bed,” it was bold to say such a thing and she had to muster up her buried wolfishness. 

Sandor barked out a laugh that made his chest jump all over again. She hadn’t been expecting him to laugh and pulled her hand off of him in surprise.

“No you don’t, little bird. You’re highborn and beautiful and you’re to be the Queen and I’m an ugly  _dog_. You’d be a fool to want _anything_ from me, and I wouldn’t believe you if you told me you did. You’ve been afraid of me since you laid eyes on me, and who’s to blame you? I’m nothing short of a  _monster_,” he choked out, threatening any tear that dared to well in his eyes again. 

Sansa moved to her knees in front of him, then wrapped her right hand in the collar of his tunic as she weaved the other one into his hair gently to hold him in place. She couldn’t fathom such self-hatred- nor the fact that he said it so confidently, with no hesitation. _He really did believe that of himself_. A few hot tears trickled from her eyes and fell down her cheeks. “It’s not _true_, Sandor. You’re _not_... You’re not a dog and you’re _definitely_ not a _monster_ ,” she pleaded, hoping he would believe her. She paused, as if seeking permission, before laying a shaky kiss on the soft, damp skin under his eye.

Sansa pulled back and looked into his eyes as deeply as she could, given only the small fragments by the full moon. Not much was visible, but she could clearly see the desperation in his eyes. She drank up all of the feelings he was giving her and thought she might break down as well. “You saved me, Sandor. You _keep_ saving me.” Sansa fingered his hair in her right hand while grabbing the crook of his neck with her left. Her body felt numb, but so sensitive at the same time. 

He lifted his head up to face her from where she was nestled beside his left thigh and brought his hands up to touch the outsides of her thighs, but he did it so nervously. He didn’t grip her or pull her onto his lap, he just brushed his fingers under her shift so gently that it made her shiver. It was a sort of tenderness that she hadn’t expected from someone who looked so rough on the outside and it made her want more. 

Sandor stared into her eyes as he brushed her with his fingertips. He feared the way he must be looking at her, knowing that he was likely baring himself for her again, but he didn’t try to cover up this time. He let her look at him, wanting her to see him truly but hoping that what she saw wouldn’t push her away. 

“Sansa,” he said slowly, as if he were testing it out for the first time. 

Hearing her name from his lips reaffirmed the power that Sansa felt over him and sent a jolt of electricity to her chest. He was right in her clutches, pleading with her for something that she knew he wouldn’t verbally ask for.

If his nerves weren’t on fire, he would’ve thought he was experiencing something too fine to be real- that for a man like him, this could only be a dream. Sandor lost any grip on reality that he might’ve had earlier and unwillingly let his caged feelings release again. His body felt numb and tingly, though he wondered if that might’ve been from the wine he had earlier. He was still staring at Sansa when she moved in to kiss his cheek again slowly. 

When he felt her lips on him again, there was a wetness and he realized he must’ve been crying again. Sansa kissed over his face in many places, sending a tingly sensation down to his toes. She was trying to kiss away his tears. He thought of telling her roughly to _stop, that that wasn’t how it worked_, but he thought better of it. Gambling with Sansa’s affection would be the most foolish thing he could do, for if he told her to stop, she would. And he didn’t want her to stop. 

A wave of anxiousness rolled over Sandor as Sansa began slowly making her descent down his face, pushing him gently so that he would lay back. Sansa put his legs with her left knee as she slowly trailed her soft lips over his neck and laid gentle kisses on his collarbones. 

She caressed the burned side of his face as she touched him, too. Sandor could hardly even feel her lips when they were there, but it wasn’t the sensation that got to him then. The fact that she even wanted to kiss him there, where his skin was ruined and hard and scary, sent a short wave of burning tears down a preformed trail on his cheek. He felt so vulnerable as she put her lips to the scars on his neck and when she gripped fistfuls of his roughspun tunic, he shook her off. 

“What are you doing?” Sandor demanded, not even breathing as he waited for her answer. 

Sansa looked up from his neck and met his surprised eyes. “Sandor,” she whispered through a thick voice as she tugged on his tunic, “take this off.” She hadn’t had anything to drink tonight but touching him was intoxicating and if she weren’t so aroused, she would be utterly ashamed that she didn’t want to stop. Her body felt aflame as she went against the modesty that was ingrained into her identity, but who was she saving her virtue for anyway? Joffrey? Her fate with Joffrey only pushed her closer to Sandor. She thought that maybe they could have a great love. _A love that people could sing songs about_. 

No, that was ridiculous, even for Sansa. Though she couldn’t deny that she had grown to care about him after all of the saving he did for her. She knew that she would be happier with him than with Joffrey. Sandor would never hurt her. 

“Little bird...” Sandor whispered in disbelief at the obvious lust in her voice. He froze beneath her. He was afraid of losing control now. If she wanted to undress him... he might move to undress her... he might... 

_No, none of that._ There was no way in any of the s even_ hells_ that he could fuck the little bird. He craved any touches that she would offer him, though this was not a clever idea in any aspect. It would be a dream to have her hands on him, for her to caress his chest and massage his back- but what an awakening it would be to revolt her. How miserable it would be for her to behold his map of scars- to realize that his disgusting, marred head wasn’t the extent of the deformities. Physical pain, he could handle, and the pleasure of her touch, he wanted so badly- but the stakes were too high. 

“No,” he said, and pushed her hands away. 

She lowered her head slightly and averted her gaze, which he supposed was disappointment, perhaps. She’d wanted to touch him, for a mysterious reason, though he’d not let her and this she seemed to take as a brutal rejection.

It wasn’t _like_ that though, so Sandor grabbed her under the arms and pulled her into his chest. This seemed to make her feel a little better, his arms around her tightly, fingers stroking her back and sides. 

Sansa’s face was curled into his neck with her narrow fingers on his shoulders. She began to take deep breaths and it took him an obscene amount of time to realize that she was smelling him. _A peculiar thing to do_, he thought, and wondered if he should be offended or flattered. Her legs fell around his hips loosely and he was reminded of the lack of attention to his cock. His groin was _aching_ for her, though what would he do? Every moment was treason. 

He knew it would be best to leave her chambers and find his own, to relieve himself in hand and maybe get some sleep, but there was no chance. The little bird put her hands in his hair and pressed her sweet kisses to his neck and he knew there would be no leaving her bed for a while. 

For a long moment, Sandor forgot himself because as she nuzzled his neck, he lowered his hands until they were full around her arse. It wasn’t a motion he was apologetic for, since he had no mind to be regretful, but the gesture seemed to cause her to realize something and she pulled back from him. 

Sansa scooted back on his front until she was seated on his thighs, her bottom pressed against the tip of him through the breeches. The pressure was enough to make him very alert regarding her seat, though not enough to alleviate his arousal. She looked over his torso, then his legs and over his hips _briefly_ before averting her gaze entirely and looking in a different direction about the room. 

“Sandor... I, uh...” she cleared her throat, still refusing to meet his gaze. 

“What is it?”

”Well... I was wondering...” she shifted her hips slightly, “if I could... _touch_.. you.” 

He stared at her sort of expectantly, wondering if she meant what he was conjuring in his head. 

Sansa put her hands gently on his hips, on either side of the laces that secured his breeches. “_Here_,” she indicated. 

_I was wondering if I could touch you_ here. 

His breath caught in his throat and all he could do was nod, and reach for the laces. 

He kept his eyes on her face as he pulled the knots apart, which were fixed curiously at his hands and the entirety of the region that he was going to present to her. 

Before long, she put a hand on his. “Can _I_?” 

He pulled his upper lip between his teeth, let out a deep breath and withdrew his hands from the laces. 

It was much different, much more _pleasurable_, when _she_ did it. Sansa put a finger between many of the cloth crosses and pulled upwards to loosen them, making contact with his cock each time and often eliciting a quiet groan from him. Eventually she was able to part the fabric widely and revealed his tented smallclothes. 

She looked at Sandor for permission once more and a moment after he nodded, she placed a finger on the base of his erection, still over the smallclothes. Sandor kept his lips sealed tightly as she explored, doing his best to stay silent. When her finger ghosted over the tip, he couldn’t help the breath that came out. She glanced at his face, looking all too pleased with herself, and returned her fingers. 

The attention felt great, but it was only riling him further and he wanted the tension to go away. 

“It’s like this,” Sandor said, pushing her hand out of the way to palm himself. His own hand was stronger and more massive than hers, though the anticipation he felt each time her fingers came down on him won ultimately, so he removed his hand and let her proceed. 

It resumed for a while, her pressure built, though eventually she wanted more. He felt her hands creep under the band of the smallclothes, wondering if this was acceptable, so he expressed that it was alright and she pulled them down to his thighs. 

The little bird became very fascinated then. There was so much more to explore like this, so much more skin for her to see and touch. They worked together to produce his pleasure, though he craved mutual satisfaction, so he sat up and flipped her around. 

Sandor pushed her onto her back and got her permission to undo the laces at her shift that tightened her chest. He could tell that she was much more nervous about her revealing herself, which was expected, so he went slowly in exposing more and more skin. 

He lowered himself over her, face in her chest and cock against her legs. Sandor kissed her neck, sucking gently enough not to mark her, and down to her collarbone. He was braced on a forearm and used the other to weave under her shift and over her breast. The sensation earned him a quiet moan from her that appeared to surprise them both. 

“Didn’t know it could feel good?” he asked, hovering above her.

Sansa shook her head, looking at him wondrously. 

“I can make it feel _better_,” he offered with a glittery eye. 

She hesitated a moment but succumbed to a nod and he slipped his arm from her shift to travel down her hip. 

Sansa seemed frozen under him, trepidatious about something he wasn’t aware of. 

“Are you going to...?”

”No,” he replied, shaking his head while he slipped his hand over her thigh. 

Sandor moved slowly over her, feeling awkward with his cock out like this, his breeches halfway down his thighs. He held the little bird’s eyes as he pushed her shift up gently to her hips. She didn’t make any protestations, so he traced two fingers around the inside of her leg and over her smallclothes. 

The wetness there was more shocking than it should’ve been. Sure, she seemed to be enjoying this encounter, but he’d _never_ had a woman wet for him... so to have her, his little bird and a _lady_, at that. 

Sansa’s body stiffened and he checked in to make sure it was pleasure and not discomfort. When all was alright, Sandor began caressing her through her smallclothes as she’d done to him. One hand clamped on her thigh to keep it open while the other traced her over what he assumed was her entrance, though he couldn’t see, and up onto her stiff little nub. When his fingers met it, she gasped and latched onto his hand. 

“Alright?” he asked. 

She nodded her head and pulled him over her. The little bird clasped onto his neck, their faces cheek to cheek as Sandor slowly slipped his hand under her smallclothes. She moaned aloud for him then, not too loudly, and reached to wrap her hand around his base.

Sandor pulled her dampened smallclothes down around her ankles and rubbed her between the legs until he could feel his release coming on. With his own frantic thrusting into her grip, his hand against her began moving more eagerly too and soon enough he had to pull away to spill back onto her thighs. 

Sansa seemed very confused, yet curious as he was panting at her knees. He took only a few moments before rolling into her side and pulling her against his front. Sandor pressed his lips against her shoulder, her neck, while his right hand pushed her thigh up gently and slid back between her legs. 

After a few moments of her leg awkwardly in the air, Sansa bent it against Sandor’s hip as he rubbed quickly at her woman’s place. She put her arm around his neck and before long, the little bird trembled and she clamped her legs over his hand. 

Sandor laid kisses on her jaw and cheek while she came down. 

“I didn’t know that I could feel that way,” she mumbled, opening her legs so he could withdraw his hand. 

“I imagined not. Septa’s certainly don’t speak of it,” Sandor combed her hair behind her ear.

He left the bed and looked around for a rag to clean her with. Upon returning to the featherbed with a dampened cloth, Sandor dragged it between her legs. She twitched when it met her sensitized folds, though soon enough he was rubbing away the traces of his pleasure and cleaning himself up as well. 

After washing it in her basin with water and lye, Sandor discarded the rag and laced her back up again, sensing that she was still coming down from her high. Once his breeches were re-situated, he climbed back into her bed, helping her under the furs and letting her curl into his side. 

“Sandor... I changed my mind. Do you think that you can sleep in here tonight?” Sansa asked him, her voice lined with satisfaction and fatigue. 

_Morning would come soon enough_, he thought. He _shouldn’t_, and he knew he shouldn’t but... 

“Fine,” he told her in a rasp, curling onto his side and wrapping his arm around her while he nudged his knee between hers like she’d done earlier. 

Sansa touched her hand to his chest and shifted slightly until she was comfortable around his knee. “Thank you,” she told him before waiting to be met by sleep.

”Nothing to thank me for,” he said with a chuckle, reveling in the feel of her frame against his. 

Sandor gave her forehead a few kisses and stroked her back and her hair as she breathed evenly against him. He felt warmer than he had in years, actually- he couldn’t ever remember feeling so comfortable. It didn’t take long before he’d joined the little bird in sleep. 

There were no more cries for the rest of the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok- I’ve gone through, made some edits, wrote a bit more. I actually changed quite a few things around.


	7. Chapter 7

Ch. 7

Sandor jerked out of sleep, waking from another nightmare about being burned alive. It took a moment for him to remember himself and the events that happened last night, putting together why he was in a bed other than his own. He blinked a few times and rolled his feet around, turning to look at Sansa, who was still curled against him. 

_Gods, she looks so beautiful. She always does, _he thought to himself as he stroked her shoulder with his fingertips. 

Thoughts of the night before flooded his head quickly and he scrunched his eyes closed. _What the buggering hells have I done?_ He hadn’t done much to the little bird short of claiming her and he’d been so careless with his seed. What the fuck was he thinking when he allowed her to undress him? _Nothing_, he wasn’t thinking at all. 

_She wouldn’t swell with a babe though_, he knew. She would have to drink moon tea- but that was a small price to pay for keeping their heads. 

Sandor made to leave the bed- slowly untangling his limbs from the little bird’s. He did his best not to wake her up, stilling his movements as she stirred- but once he was standing he saw her hug herself and open her eyes. 

“Sandor,” she yawned, clearly experiencing the same moment of surprise that he had at waking up in a shared bed. 

“I’m going back to my chambers, little bird. It’s safer that way,” he told her firmly- willing himself not to be persuaded into getting back into her bed. It _did_ take effort. She looked stunning, even more so now that sunlight poured into the room and lit her features. Flecks of blue glittered in her eyes, and as he stared into them he struggled to hold himself, so he turned away from her and made for the door. 

Sansa sat up, still feeling around for the energy of the new day. “Thank you,” she said in a daze, “for staying here... with me.”

Sandor wasn’t accustomed to hearing that- in fact, no one ever said it to him besides her that he could remember. He didn’t have anything to say in response that wouldn’t sound _forc__ed_. 

“Sansa,” he turned to face her. “You should take moon tea, in case...” he trailed off, predicting their like fates if the king- or frankly _anyone_\- found out. He couldn’t even _contemplate_ what would happen if Sansa swelled with his seed while they lived in _King’s Landing_. _Gods_. 

She cringed, “Moon tea?”

Sansa had heard about tansy tea, though she was never told directly about it. There would be no reason for a _lady_ to have any use with moon tea. She knew that it served to keep a baby from growing. _But why was it necessary when he hadn’t done... that? _She wondered. 

“If you need me to get some for you, then I will,” Sandor offered, standing in front of the door. 

She decided not to press further- not to ask why it was necessary. She feared it might upset him, but she also feared that it would confirm his images of her naivety and stupidity. Besides that, she assumed that he knew more about these things than she did and decided to trust him. 

Sansa rubbed her eyes and nodded at him. 

“Alright, little bird, I should come back later this eve,” Sandor gave her a mock bow of his head and then grinned, remembering the sight of her last night as he closed her door behind him. 

The castle wasn’t awake yet, which he was grateful for as he walked back to his chambers free of witness. _Where the fuck am I supposed to find tansy tea? I did offer to fetch it for her, but I can’t right walk up to Pycelle or better yet- Littlefinger. _

Sandor snickered mockingly at himself. Had he not been so reckless with the little bird last night, they wouldn’t be in this mess. It was possible that the moon tea was unnecessary, but he would have to do his best to find it anyway. He thought about stealing it, but he didn’t even know where Pycelle’s room of _maesterly_ potions were kept. He didn’t know how _much_ he should give her if he did manage to steal it. Too much and he could _kill_ her, for all he knew. 

Sandor rubbed his eyes roughly while cursing under his breath as he made his way to his chamber door. He went in- but it was brief. He changed into fresher underclothes and layered on his armor and then he was out again. He filled a drawstring pouch with gold dragons before making the route to one of Littlefinger’s brothels. 

The trip there was aggravating, all of the low tunnels he had to clamber through as his mailed suit clanked against itself. He _hated_ going to brothels, he always had. He’d gone to them only a few times though it never ended well. 

He always felt such shame afterwards- so much that the pleasure wasn’t even worth it. Not even _whores_ let him think that they enjoyed it. It _physically_ felt good, but without _**anything**_ from his partner, he might as well have fucked his hand. He always felt so... _empty_... afterwards, and not in a satisfying way. He’d never had a good fuck- so he jumped at the little bird when she’d shown a desire for him. After all... no one had ever _desired **him**_ before. 

Sandor couldn’t help but feel like it was too good to be true. Hells, it was more than _too good to be true_, it was fucking impossible. Sansa Stark could never even _contemplate_ settling for _him_. He knew that she didn’t really want him- and if she thought she did, she would change her mind soon enough and _regret_ him, yet he still took everything that he could get from her. So what did that make him?- If he was taking advantage of the little bird who he told himself that he “cared for”. 

It felt peculiar going to one now, especially since he wasn’t on his way for a woman. He tried to ignore the looks of any smallfolk he saw on his way, though they didn’t ignore him. They couldn’t if they wanted to, they all cowered away and stumbled back, occasionally even _running back in the other direction_. It was all incredibly dehumanizing to him, though it was the reputation he’d built for himself. It wasn’t _wrong_ of them to be terrified of him. The power felt good for a while, but when the feeling soured, he began to feel such loneliness that it was hardly an existence worth continuing. 

Until he’d caught sight of Sansa Stark. 

Littlefinger wouldn’t be here, so at least that was a worry he didn’t need to carry. _He would be at the council meeting surely_, Sandor remembered. _Dogs_ weren’t allowed at meetings of the council, he’d been told as he’d tried to escort Joffrey in. It was a humiliating and degrading moment, but he fumed elsewhere, caring not to start the rare fight that he _couldn’t_ win with any noble. He had laughed about it in truth though. _Dogs_ are loyal, but Littlefinger? Littlefinger was the one who they should fear in that aspect. 

Sandor opened the big, grimy wooden door and stepped into Littlefinger’s whorehouse in King’s Landing. While he didn’t enjoy being there, at least it was someplace where nobody ran away from him, too scared to even be in his proximity. 

A man walked up to him then. He was short, compared to Sandor at least, dressed too nicely to be among the smallfolk- though not quite well enough to be noble. The man didn’t give Sandor his name, but he asked a few pointless questions to determine which woman to give him. 

Sandor shrugged at most of the questions, disinterested. He wouldn’t have her anyway, so why go through the notions? 

After a moment of just staring at Sandor, the man ushered him into a private room with a whore. Sandor paid the man, who grinned happily at the gold dragons before leaving. 

As soon as the door was closed, the naked girl swallowed nervously at his sight before moving in and putting her hands on him. 

“Don’t touch me,” Sandor told her in a firm rasp, shoving her hands off of him. He couldn’t snarl the words at Sansa, but with this girl he had no problem.

The girl gave him _such_ a confused look and it aggravated him further. Whores weren’t really supposed to talk to the men who used them, so she didn’t say anything- just sat back on the bed anticipating that he would begin to touch her or _something_. He had paid for this, after all. 

“Who supplies your tansy tea?” Sandor questioned, keeping his distance. 

The girl looked around the room nervously, making indistinct noises instead of answering. 

Sandor wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword. He certainly wasn’t reckless enough to murder a whore in a crowded _brothel, _in the middle of the day. Though he was used to threatening people- that always worked in the past. _Unless the threat was toward Sansa_, he remembered.

Her eyes widened and she covered her torso with her arms defensively. “Littlefinger gets it,” she let out quietly. “We make our own portions.” 

“So you have access to it,” he stated, waiting for her confirmation. 

The girl nodded and Sandor released his hand from the hilt, moving to pull out his pouch of coins. 

“I need some,” Sandor told her, extending the pouch so she could take it. 

The girl nodded again, keeping her eyes on him nervously all while standing and disappearing for a moment. 

Sandor didn’t wait long before she came back into the room. His gold was gone, but she held a folded scrap of tanned canvas. The girl closed the door behind her and gave him the the packet, along with a very small vial of liquid. 

“How do I prepare it?” Sandor asked flatly as he unrolled the canvas. Inside there were thin, dried leaves and small, pale flowers. He saw a few other plants that differed from the flowers- which seemed to be the base of the mixture. 

The girl tried to hold back a look of ridicule at having to spell all of this out for him. She believed that he was daft, which wouldn’t surprising in the least for his _occupation_, but it made her uncomfortable to be discussing these things with a customer. She feared that Littlefinger would find out and punish her for selling a mixture of tansy- especially if she kept the money for herself. Though this man had already loosely threatened her with his sword, which made this encounter more desperate of attention than the one she might have with Littlefinger later. 

“Steep it in boiling water,” the girl said quietly, separating the leaves into a smaller amount to show him how much to brew. “All three of these,” she pointed to each of the different plants, “have to be in the tea.”

“Add a drop of this,” she gestured to the vial then, “_only_ a _drop_, too much of it is dangerous.” 

Sandor mumbled her words over again to himself, irritated that the instructions were so complicated and specific when he wasn’t even sure if any of this was necessary. He was still confused about the portions and how much of each plant to include in one cup, so she explained it to him over again until he was satisfied. 

Sandor folded up the canvas as carefully as his awkward fingers could muster so that the contents wouldn’t fall out later. He settled the pouch into his pocket and was ready to leave. 

The girl spoke suddenly, remembering, “Oh- it would be best... to add honey. The taste, it’s bitter.”

Sandor nodded at her, his eyes roamed over her body then and he realized that he hadn’t even looked at her in all this time. He wasn’t even curious. She had a nice figure in truth, but she didn’t get his blood up at all. Now that he had whatever it was that Sansa was giving him, he couldn’t settle for whores. It was a shitty thought, but they wouldn’t be good enough. 

Sandor put his hand on the door, “If anyone finds out what I was here for, I’ll cut you in half,” he told her flatly before leaving the room. 

_Now back to the little bird_. It wasn’t that he deserved Sansa, or that he was any better than the whores. He was still beside himself that Sansa allowed him to do anything more than replace her _chamber pot_, in truth. Though now that she had given him the slightest notion that he could have her, she was all that he wanted in the Seven Kingdoms. She gave the only light in his dark, meaningless life and it took no time before he found himself addicted to her. 

The walk back was worse, now that King’s Landing had woken up. There were more people that ran into him as he made his was through the wet, smelly streets. He didn’t look at any of them, he only kept his eyes ahead of him no matter how many of them backed away fearfully or sped up at his sight. 

Once Sandor made it back into the Red Keep, it would be time to attend to Joffrey again. He contemplated whether it would be a good idea to bring the tea to the little bird himself or if he should have someone else do it.

_Must she take it immediately? This is so bloody ridiculous_, he clenched his fists. _The girl is still a maid_. Sandor wondered if he could just bring it to her at night, that would be the easiest. No one would see him in the dead of night, and he would have to ask no one else to bring her the tansy. 

_Has she even bled yet?_ Sandor stopped briefly in his tracks, surprised by the thought. _She probably hasn’t_, he decided. _If she’d had her moonblood, the king probably would’ve already taken her into his bed_. He cringed at that last part, thinking of the little bird’s screams as that blond-haired cunt took her. Her screams would be even more horrific at whatever punishment she would have to endure if Joffrey found out she was heavy with Sandor’s babe.

_Gods_, he felt so heavy all of the sudden. Heavy and cold and _barren, _like he was just an empty shell.

He wouldn’t just stand there guarding the door as Joffrey _raped_ Sansa. If he heard anything of the _sort_ erupting from the king’s room, he’d march in and put his sword through the boy. Even if it meant his head. 

But that was just as bitter a thought. It would be just as bad a fate if he’d been executed, leaving her in King’s Landing with no one to protect her again. At least he would’ve killed the king for her; gotten the little bird’s revenge for her lord father. 

It was all a fantasy though. As he’d predicted before- killing the king would just be a sacrifice. He’d lose his head immediately, there’d be no trial. It’d probably be _Meryn_ fucking _Trant_ who’d be the one to do it, too.

Even if she didn’t want him, he would still protect her. Hopefully she knew that she was safe with him. Even if she asked of him nothing more than his protection, at least she wouldn’t be alone. Sandor decided that he’d be fine with that. _A life of protecting the little bird?_ He’d take it in a heartbeat over being _Joffrey’s_ sworn shield. 

He made his way through the stony halls of the Red Keep until he made it to Joffrey’s door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credits to AdultOrphan for most of this chapter because I might’ve just ignored any worry of pregnancy had they not brought up a good point <3.


	8. Chapter 8

Ch. 8

Being a sworn shield paid well, especially to be the King’s sworn shield, but most of the time it was dry work. He never did anything other than stand at Joffrey’s side, unless some fool took a step too close to the boy. Even worse, he had to listen to the boy talk all the time.  _ What a cunt_. Foul, sadistic words poured out of his mouth every time he spoke, and often Sandor forgot the meaning of protecting him. It would be a favor to the  seven if Sandor put his sword through  _King Joffrey_, even if his head got lopped off an instant later. 

King’s Landing was a shithole, but Sandor did enjoy having chambers in the Red Keep, the castle was beautiful. He could eat as much as he wanted, which was a lot. Again, the pay was more than enough. He didn’t like the crowds though. He didn’t like people looking at him, either. Handmaidens were offered to tend to his chambers, but he’d snarled at them for coming in when he was in there. Sandor only permitted them to enter when he was away. The fewer people who saw his ugly face, the better. 

All of those blisses were only honorable mentions compared to the amount of pleasure he’d gotten from visiting the little bird’s chambers these past few nights. It was still a wonder why she allowed him to set his filthy paws on her, but he certainly wouldn’t refuse the opportunity. He marched there eagerly once the King had relieved him from his duties. The castle was black apart from the small bits of moonlight that came in through the stony windows.

Sandor arrived at the little bird’s door soon, hearing noise erupting from her chambers as he approached. He gave a knock and waited for the door to crack open, stifling a grin at the girl’s defensiveness over who was lurking outside her quarters. He felt a twinge of pride at her caution. She pulled the door open once she saw it was him, though she didn’t look happy in the least. 

The room was lit by two long candles at either side of her bed and a few in other corners of the room. The lights flickered every few moments, sending shadows to move across the stony floor. It took but a moment for Sandor’s eyes to catch the dark mass in Sansa’s bed. 

“Little bird...” he said softly and slowly, setting down the package of tansy on a table against the wall. “I brought the moon tea, but seems to be unnecessary now,” he let out as gently as he was capable of. 

Tears leaked down pre-formed trails on Sansa’s cheeks. Her eyes burned and she shut them slowly, letting out a broken breath. She’d had her first moon blood and she knew well what it meant for her. It would be perhaps a sennight before Joffrey took her to the marriage bed and forced her to give him heirs. It would be the end of any shred of freedom she had left. She was a prisoner in King’s Landing now, but when she wed Joffrey she would become a slave. It didn’t matter if she was named  _Queen of the Seven Kingdoms_, she would be Joffrey’s slave. She’d been so strong for all of this time, but this would break her. It wouldn’t be an existence worth living. It was something she’d once dreamed about, which she was ashamed to admit. Now it was her worst nightmare come true. 

Sandor knew what her moon blood meant as well. He froze in place, repulsed by the idea that any secret vow he made to protect the little bird would be thwarted. He’d promised himself that he would not let harm come to her, that he would not  stand guard  outside while the blond cunt  _raped_ Sansa. But what could he do in truth? Raise his voice to the boy and tell him not to touch the _Queen? His own buggering wife? _The boy would probably make him watch out of spite. He stood perfectly still, clenching his fists subconsciously until they were reduced to bright white knuckles.

His fists clenched so tightly that red marks from his fingernails dented the skin of his palms. He brought his attention back to Sansa, who was profusely scrubbing at her featherbed, trying to draw out the blood. She wasn’t making any progress. 

“_Sansa_,” he walked towards her, “that isn’t going to work.”

The little bird dropped her bloodied rags onto the feather bed and caught her face in her hands, cutting back sobs.

It wouldn’t be wise to hide this from the Lannisters and he knew it. It was a terrible idea- if they found out that the little bird had been hiding her blood, the punishment that Joffrey would inflict on her would be nothing short of horrific. But it didn’t matter right now- to see her melancholy and hopeless like this was unbearable and he couldn’t tell her that she could not win this battle against the Lannisters. The only thing he could do was help her, so he did. 

“It’s alright,” he tried, “let’s flip it over.” 

Sansa nodded and wiped away her tears, inhaling quickly through her nose. Sandor took the moment of her settling herself to pull off his armor, since he didn’t need to wear it here. He set the pile of it down by Sansa’s door, though he set down his sword beside her bed. _Surely no one would come for the little bird’s chambers, but if some fool tried his luck, the sword would be needed. _

He caught a glimpse of her trying to lift the bed herself and failing before he returned to her. They lifted the featherbed (though in truth it was mostly Sandor) and turned it onto the other side to hide the bloodstain. Sandor helped her lay out rags so that even if she bled through the cloth in her smallclothes, it would not seep into the bed again. Flipping the bed over once was already a gamble, but for there to be stains on both sides- that couldn't be hidden. 

Sandor was pleased to help the little bird with this, it was surely no chore. It was fulfilling to be useful in a way that she appreciated- which certainly wasn’t killing. 

He cringed at the memory of their confrontation, of how he told her that _killing’s the sweetest thing there is_. It didn’t give him pride to admit it, but it was the truth. Or... it was the truth until she’d let him into her featherbed and let him caress her with his filthy paws. Sansa’s entire _existence_ was doubtlessly the sweetest thing, but he didn’t have it in him to profess such sweet words to her. 

“Little bird,” he gave his best attempt at soothing- the one he’d learned from her the other eve- wrapping his big arms around her and combing her hair with his fingers. Sansa gripped him around the middle tightly, digging her fingernails sharply into his back as she trembled gently. Sandor could feel his tunic dampening where her tears had met it. 

”I won’t let him hurt you, little bird, I won’t let any of them hurt you,” Sandor promised after a while of holding her there next to her freshly made bed. It took a moment to digest that he’d given her a  _vow_, but the words were too fast for his resistance. To feel her little hands around his waist and her head against his chest- he would say or do  _anything_ to hold onto the feeling. 

_How could he say that when it wasn’t true?_ Sansa wondered. It was mysterious how he tried to lie to her when he said he  hated lies.  _He could do nothing to stop them, they would only kill him. _She wanted his words to be true, but it felt like mockery. 

“You can’t promise that to me, Sandor,” she told him roughly, pulling away from him as a few more tears fell from her swollen eyelids. “Not if it isn’t true. You can’t do anything, you  _serve_ him,” she reminded him. He couldn’t truly expect her to believe that... after all, it was he who’d reminded her to throw away her fantasies time and time again.

A pang slashed him through the chest at her words, one of sadness and anger alike. She hadn’t come out and said as much, but he couldn’t help but hear her blame. Why should his word mean  _anything_ to her? Aye, he’d shouted his protest when Trant stripped her, and he’d lied for her at the king’s tourney- but what about all of the other times? _What about when they cut off her father’s fucking head?_ _Why should she believe me after all of the times that I stood back and let her suffer?_

”Sansa,” he stared her right in the eyes as he pressed his fingers to her waist, trailing his gaze down her torso while brushing his thumbs gently over her ribs. He waited for the reciprocation of his gaze before continuing, drawing her in and not allowing her to miss a syllable. “I  _can_ promise that. I won’t let  _anyone_ hurt you again. Not _Meryn Trant_, not _Cersei Lannister_ and not the fucking _King_.” The declaration came out so undoubtedly that even though she knew it to be impossible, she couldn’t help but believe him. Sansa could tell that he believed the words, he looked like he was making her the biggest promise he’d ever made. 

She gave him a slight nod, to let him know that she understood. It was difficult to believe that someone would protect her again, because she had been fending for herself for so long. Though Sandor Clegane _had_ protected her, even though there was never anything in it for him. “I... believe you,” she told him truthfully. She considered that perhaps he would protect her after all. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to save her in the end, but for now she could pretend that he was her _true knight_. If she had him with her in King’s Landing, maybe she could make it with... _Joffrey_. 

The declaration rolled over something inside of her heart and she gulped. Sansa’s senses were heightened, she felt like her skin was peeled back and all of her nerved were exposed. The stony floor was cold beneath her bare feet, which was soothing since the rest of her body was aflame. 

She couldn’t help it, he’d been so tender with her for these past few eves. It was hard not to want to be with him when the alternative was _Joffrey_. Though...even if Joffrey wasn’t her betrothed, she contemplated that she might still want Sandor. His scars didn’t scare her anymore, not after she’d seen who he was behind them. His personality had made him ugly before, not his looks. The features below his scars were not unattractive in the least, and now even his scars... well, they didn’t look bad at all.

Sansa wondered again what her life would be like with him as her lord husband. It was a silly thought and it hurt her to think about, since each time she did, she wanted him more and more. Though again, she couldn’t help it. She knew he was everything that her kingly husband would never be... _brave and gentle and strong_... Joffrey was the absolute opposite. _Sandor could slay him if he wanted to, he could probably slay the whole Kingsguard._

She reached up to his shoulders and clasped around his neck, her fingertips weaving into his hair naturally. He didn’t look scary at all... even _beautiful_, perhaps, now that she could see him up close. Sansa looked adoringly at his face, which he was obviously so ashamed of. He swallowed visibly and averted his face from her carefully. She wished she could tell him that there was _nothing_ to be ashamed of, but surely he would just get angry at her and accuse her of lying so she bit her lip at the urge. 

Sandor widened his eyes at her, heart beating so hard that he thought blood might burst out of his chest. He felt extremely vulnerable behind her stare and wanted to cover his face up so she couldn’t look at him. _Why would she want to look anyway?_ He was scared as he anticipated her lips on his. Touching on him in the dark was one thing, she couldn’t see his ugly fucking face- but now... _Can she truly bear to look at me like this?- In the light, with my scars fully on display? _The beautiful Lady Sansa Stark kissing_ the Hound?_

Sansa swallowed slowly and tipped his head down toward her with her fingertips, standing on her tippy-toes and tilting her head up at the same time to meet his. She closed her eyes and puckered her pretty lips to place a kiss on him. When her lips touched his, tingles ran down his spine and tickled his limbs. 

Sandor gripped her through her lilac silk and kissed her gently, releasing a sharp breath that he hadn’t known he was holding upon the parting of their lips. 

Sansa braced herself on the flats of her feet again, dragging her fingers from his neck to stroke him around his sides. She looked so beautiful, her eyes, too, still puffy from crying. It didn’t make any sense to him- why she’d want to go anywhere _near_ his face. It was one thing for her to touch him in the dark because she was curious about men, or even let him touch her for, well... who _knows_ why- perhaps she let him touch her because he scared her less than the king, or perhaps she just wanted to be touched _for fuck’s sake_, but never because she wanted _him_. 

“Why did you do that?” Sandor asked her, holding his breath again in anticipation of her answer.

“I don’t want to wed King Joffrey,” she whispered, looking up at him with sorrowful eyes. “I don’t want him to... t-take me...”

The thought made Sandor shudder and he looked away from her again, toying with his hands to ease the threat of anger bubbling to the surface. “I don’t want him to either, little bird,” he said honestly. 

Sansa rubbed at her puffy eyes, wearing a defeated expression before turning her back to Sandor. 

“Do you need sleep?” Sandor asked her, wondering the time. He wasn’t tired but it wasn’t unlikely that she was. 

Sansa nodded, “Can you... help me with these?” She asked shyly, gesturing to the laces that were tied obviously out of reach. 

_This wouldn’t be like the other few eves_ , he thought to himself. The room was filled with light and she was asking him to disrobe her. If he obeyed, he would not be able to avert his gaze from her naked skin. 

Surely he couldn’t fuck her while she had her moon blood. He had already sworn to himself that he wouldn’t take her, but to think of having her while she was with her moon blood- there was no way. Not because the thought disgusted him, because it didn’t disgust him at all _. S_ urely it would disgust Sansa, and since she was raised to be a lady, she likely believed that it was disgusting to lay with a man during those days. 

_Would that even feel... good? Did women want to be attended during their moon cycle?_ He didn’t know in truth, he’d never fucked a woman while she had her blood. 

_Enough_, he scolded himself, cringing at his lewd thoughts.  _Nothing good will come of these tortuous fantasie__s_, he knew.  _She only wishes for her dress to be unlaced_. 

“Aye... little bird,” he complied, tugging slowly at the two ends of the bow and pulling the laces apart. It was truly a pleasure to take off her clothes, one that he doubted he would ever get again. The silk was weightless and it spread quickly down her shoulders, stopping in a pool around her wide hips. Her back was pale and soft-looking and he longed to touch it- he wondered if her skin was as soft as the silk that covered it. The sight made Sandor’s cock twitch in his breeches and he turned away from her abruptly to give her privacy. 

It took effort not to stare at her- especially as he heard the bundle of fabric sweep the stone floor. It was torture imagining her almost naked body only steps away from him, but he’d already resolved that nothing could happen between them tonight. 

Sansa blushed as she thought of his shyness, if that’s what she could call it. She took the liberty of his turned back to change into her sleep shift. 

Sandor dug his fingers into his closed eyes, forcing himself not to peek at her. He wanted to see her figure in the light so badly, and his cock agreed- but he’d like to think he was better than to steal glances at her like some buggering _green boy_. Though it wasn’t like he’d been acting short of a green boy lately, anyway. 

She called him to let him know that he could turn to her again and he did, both disappointed and relieved that she was in an unshapely, long, sleep shift. 

Sandor approached swiftly and scooped her up into his arms, cradling her. _Surely she could step into her own bed_, but when he carried her she could imagine that he was her lordly husband in truth. He placed her into her featherbed that they’d freshly made and buried her in the fluffy furs. The candles stopped him from mounting her bed instantly after he’d set her down- so he extinguished them before climbing in beside her. He laid down slowly on his side while Sansa was on her back. He made the  _honorable_ choice to stay above the little bird’s furs, nervous that her shift alone would not create a strong enough barrier to keep his cock away.

He shouldn’t touch her like that while she had her blood, but he surely would if she let him. He might even lick her like a  _real_ dog would. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had someone else’s blood on his lips, and the thought didn’t repulse him nearly as much as it should. He’d be so grateful to have her at all that attending to her like that would be no task, he would instead consider himself lucky. 

If she was his lady wife in truth then he would give her her pleasure every night, there wouldn’t be anything she could do to keep him away. She’d be embarrassed by the notion of him licking her at first, but it would pass, and then she wouldn’t  _want_ to keep him away. The thought had him _throbbing_. 

Tingles passed through Sandor’s body again and he went numb, overcome with his feelings for the little bird. He rolled to push her onto her right side, sliding behind her and nuzzling his face into her neck. Sansa groaned audibly as he wrapped his body around her protectively, afraid to let her go. 

Her body ached- she’d heard that it was a result of her moon blood. She curled her knees up to her stomach and let Sandor hold her tightly. The pressure of his body against hers took away some of the pain, but it also felt intoxicating to be held so tenderly. She realized with embarrassment that one of the aches _wasn’t_ from her moon blood. She wanted Sandor to touch her again like he’d done before but surely he wouldn’t want her when she was with her blood. 

“Sandor,” she whispered through a sleepy daze, grabbing his hand and intertwining their fingers against her chest. She pressed her body back further against his chest, clenching her thighs together at her ache. 

“Aye, little bird,” he rasped softly into her neck, breathing heavily against her skin while caressing her ribs through her shift with his free hand. He was wrapped perfectly around her and the thought that they were made for each other- that their bodies were made to fit together so perfectly- was hard to dismiss from his mind. 

”I was wrapped in your cloak today... when it _happened_,” she told him with humiliation, “it’s stained... with my _blood_.” It felt dirty just to talk about. Surely ladies didn’t talk about their moon cycles with anyone except for maesters. 

”Its alright, little bird,” he chuckled softly. If anything, he was pleased that she marked his cloak, and just as pleased that she’d been wearing it again in his absence. 

“Sandor...” 

“What is it?” Sandor brushed her hair behind her ear and whispered. 

“I don’t want to be with Joffrey,” she told him for the second time, her eyelashes fluttering over closed lids. 

“I know, little bird,”  _I don’t want you to be with him either_, he thought sadly and kissed her neck slowly in many spots. 

“I want to be with _you_,” she mumbled, a tear dripping down the side of her face. She didn’t know if it was from the confession or a result of her sleep, but she scrunched her eyes shut and gripped his fingers tightly. 

The words made his chest ache and he gulped loudly, thinking he might lose his grip on his emotions again. Sandor pressed a kiss to her moist cheekbone and freed his fingers from her own to stroke her hair gently. It saddened him to hear her say such a thing, whether it was true or not. The arm that she’d been laying on had long fallen asleep, but he held her tightly anyway and stroked her ribs and her belly until his ears were met with her gentle snores. He cuddled her, savoring the moment for as long as he could bear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol I went back and changed some things from the other chapters. Nothing major that will affect the plot, mostly just details that I thought needed to be added.


	9. Chapter 9

Ch. 9

When the little bird had been sleeping for some time, Sandor took the opportunity to relieve himself of his throbbing erection. A jolt to his aching cock reminded him of his hardness, reminded him that he was still pressed to the cleft of her ass. 

He untangled their limbs and rolled away from her slender frame. Her long hair was a dark mass of scattered wisps all over the furs and Sandor was once again confronted with how utterly irresistible she was. The girl was practically the maiden herself, which made him wonder constantly why she allowed _him_ to touch her.

And she’d even said she _wanted to be with him_. Sandor could hardly believe what he was hearing when she’d said that. _Lady_ Sansa Stark wanted to be with _him?_ _In truth? _It was practically impassible. 

She had said that she wanted him, and she’d expressed it, too. He remembered the other night, when she’d asked him if she could touch him. _Or was that last night?_ Sandor wasn’t entirely sure. All of the days were so long, especially when he wasn’t with Sansa. When they weren’t together, she seldom left his mind.

She’d asked him if she could touch him, and he’d let her. She cried out for him when he gave her her pleasure, and trembled, too. 

He had contemplated reasons for why the little bird wanted to touch him. He told himself it was _late_, and the moon had made her a little crazy. He told himself that she touched him because she wanted to thank him for who _knows_ what. He had even considered that the little bird just wanted to touch him because she was curious about men, because she knew he would let her _explore_ him. 

None of the reasons ever included her possessing an actual desire for **_him_**, though. _That was ridiculous_. 

Maybe it still is ridiculous. Maybe the little bird only told him she wanted to be with him for those other reasons he’d thought up for why she’d touched him. Maybe she just said it because it was the night of her first fucking _moonblood_, and women were unpredictable when they were with their blood. 

There were lots of different reasons why she could feel so possessed to say such a thing, but most importantly, she’d said it. Sandor deeply wanted to believe her sweet words, more than anything he’d wanted since he could remember. It was so difficult to believe that it wasn’t all a dream...

_It was so heavenly_, the way she wrapped their fingers together and curled into him. If it turned out to be the truth, if she really wanted to be his lady wife, then she could have him without a word of protest. He would do absolutely anything for her, he would worship her as if she were his own _Queen_. He wondered sadly if his worship could provide any real compensation for her ruined fantasy of being the _true_ Queen, the title that was promised. Would she resent him for that ruined fantasy? 

Sandor toppled out of the little bird’s featherbed and made for her water closet. With his hand tugging at the laces of his breeches already, he stepped inside. 

The little bird’s curvy figure came vividly to his mind as rolled his breeches down to the middle of his thighs and pulled out his engorged member. Images of her hands on him, one on his cock and the other on his hip came to him as he stroked himself. _Gods, she’s so beautiful_, Sandor’s chest ached as he thought of her. 

He would have much preferred that _she_ tended to his arousal, like she had before, but he wouldn’t wake her from her sleep for this. Nor would he ask her to pleasure him and give nothing back to her, resolving that she would not care for his touches while she had her blood. 

It was hard to hone in on his fantasies and not let them get interrupted by the other storm of thoughts raging inside his head. It was challenging not to swirl out of her water closet, pull the girl’s smallclothes down and around her ankles and fuck her until she cried out his name. 

Sandor tried his best to focus in on the thought of the little bird’s cold fingers warming up around his cock. He pictured her in _plenty_ of erotic situations with him. She had been the subject of his fantasies for more than a year.

Sandor thought of the little bird straddling him in his featherbed, gliding her wet slit along his length before bracing her hands on his chest and lowering herself around him until he was buried to her hilt. He thought of her tight cunt stretching to take him in fully, her sweet cries once she finally did. 

She was just outside, after all. It would be almost effortless to climb between her legs and pound her sweet cunt hard and relentless so that she wouldn’t even be able to move when he was finished. 

Sandor put a hand on the stony wall, the other moving swiftly back and forth his length. 

While the thought thrilled him, he wouldn’t do such a thing unless the little bird wanted him to. If all she wanted was soft and sweet, he would be fine as long as he could please her. If the girl felt so possessed as to give herself to _him_, then he would take her any way she wanted. 

Thinking about the little bird in such a way sent him to his release faster than he anticipated. He elicited a gasp and stroked himself slowly, riding out the waves of pleasure. His knees began to lock and he shook them slightly, cleaning himself up before lacing up his breeches and leaving the small room. 

The chambers were almost pitch black, aside from the fragments of moonlight soaked into the floor. The sun wouldn’t be up for several hours. 

It was clear that Sansa had shifted positions since he’d left her featherbed. He grinned at her, her limbs sprawled out across the bed in every direction. 

Sandor knew that he could’ve used her position as a reason to go back to his chambers, but in truth, sleeping by the girl’s side brought him such a feeling that he _never_ wanted to back to his own chambers. He would feel like a true _green boy in love_ if he declared that to her, but... he _had_ been relating with that identity as of late. 

Still grinning, Sandor approached the featherbed, bracing his hands on the furs as he hovered over Sansa and placed a kiss on her crown. 

“Little bird,” he nudged her shoulder gently with his fingers.

Sansa stretched her long legs and sucked in a deep breath at his interruption of her sleep. She blinked a few times, expecting the room to be filled with light, but it wasn’t. It was still the middle of the night and for that she was grateful. She’d been having a lovely dream about running with Lady in Winterfell and wanted to get back to it. 

“Sandor?” Sansa mumbled through a husky voice, finishing her stretch as she looked up at him through sweet eyes.

”Aye, little bird,” he climbed under the thick furs of her featherbed. “You were all spread out, I didn’t have any room,” he admitted.

Sansa looked at him briefly and then shut her eyes, uninterested. “Oh. Forgive me, my...” she stopped herself, “_Sandor_.” 

He smirked and rolled his eyes, not offended that the little bird had used her courtesies on him in a lull. _At least she didn’t say ser_, he thought. 

“Nothing to forgive,” he said plainly. Sandor groped around the floor to ensure that his sword was still there, memorizing the position just in case. 

With that settled, he rolled her over onto her right side, scooting in against her back to match the position. He wrapped his hand around her waist and pulled her snug up against him, curling his legs behind her knees. 

“Sansa,” he returned her husky voice, his fatigue catching up with him now that he’d spent himself.

”Mm,” she groaned quietly, drawing her knees up. 

“What are you dreaming of?” 

“_Lady_,” she whispered, a pang in her heart at her lost wolf even through the barrier of her fatigue. 

“Aye,” Sandor replied, feeling guilty for his part in that mess, though not wanting to say so. 

He knew of the happiness that could be brought by dreams, so he stopped speaking. He wanted to let her get back there, to Winterfell, likely, with her late direwolf. As for his dreams, they would be of her if he were lucky. 

Sandor rubbed his feet together and laid a kiss at the crook of her neck. 

Sandor felt so much more comfortable next to her now that he’d been relieved. He felt satisfied in an unfamiliar way, like the little bird was his wife and this was routine for them. Unfortunately, the illusion of safety didn’t last when he remembered where they really were, in King’s Landing, surrounded by sadistic _cunts_. 

He knew, deep down, that this wasn’t going to work. He knew he would have to take Sansa away from here if they would have any chance at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not super long and almost entirely fluff. I’m more into angst than I am fluff, so it was just kind of a mood- but bear with me. And, I wanted to include Sandor’s feelings about the end of the last chapter immediately instead of waiting until ch. 10. Ch. 10 will be *more* in terms of plot.


	10. Chapter 10

Ch 10

The next eve had come around. It was a night of absolute terror, green fire engulfed the entire capital. Sandor couldn’t think of a better time to get the fuck out of King’s Landing. 

Once he saw the burning ocean, he knew it was as good as over. Sandor excused himself from the Kingsguard, bidding himself leave from the crowned brat, which he considered a ceremony long overdue. 

In truth, Sandor didn’t think he’d ever seen the boy so speechless. He supposed nothing less could be expected. No one expects to be betrayed by their own loyal dog, not even when its deserved. 

Sandor rushed back to gather things he was sure would be necessary for the travel, and then he went for Sansa’s chambers. _This is no place for a little bird._

He waited for her return in the pitch blackness, trying desperately to ward off the images of fire. The thick seas of green outside provided the only fragments of light in the girl’s room.

The door creaked open soon and he blinked in protest at the light from the torch-lit halls. 

“Little bird,” the Hound said quietly, announcing himself. 

The girl was startled to hear his voice. The light in the halls outlined her silhouette as she entered, but no light cast on him. 

“Sandor,” she said, gripping her chest and trying to breathe normally after the surprise of his presence. 

He squinted to watch her  _oh so gracefully_ stagger over to where he was sitting on her bed. Her arms were extended so that she could feel her way around, and her fingers brushed the inside of his leg accidentally, rewarding her a soft wince from Sandor. 

He’d spared her bed of his blood-covered armor and stripped himself of it in the corner of her chambers. Therefore, he was only wearing breeches and smallclothes when she’d rubbed up against his leg. 

Sandor wrapped his fingers around her waist and pulled her between his knees. He refrained from the urge to press his face between her teats, but _gods, _ _she was so buggering close_. 

He breathed in deeply. If he let his arousal catch up with him, it would get him behind on his plans for escape. Their lives depended on the escape. He reminded himself of the vitality of the situation in hopes of cooling down. 

“Come away with me, little bird,” the Hound begged as he fingered the ends of her hair. 

“Sandor...” she started, touching his shoulders softly. 

“The city is burning, Sansa,” he told her, taking her hands in a plea. “You’d be safe with me.” Sandor pointed to the slot in her wall, the window where she gazed at the city. “They’re afraid of me. All of them. No one will hurt you again, I’ll kill anyone who tries.” He slowly swept down to cradle her hands. “Please, little bird, let me take you away from this _hell_.”

He stood up after a moment, slowly, and guided her to move as well. Though he could hardly see her, he could feel her doubt coming in radiated waves towards him. 

“Where will we go...?” Sansa asked, letting fantasies of Winterfell swirl in her mind. 

“North,” Sandor rasped, and the word was music to her ears. “Unless you’d rather go elsewhere,” he added while she was busy fantasizing. 

“No,” she cut him off in protest and gripped his palms tightly, “take me home.”

“Aye, little bird,” he lowered his head to nibble on her ear gently before kissing her temple, their fingers still tangled together. “That’s what I’ll do.” 

Sansa lit two hanging candles and the room filled with light. The two of them scrambled around Sansa’s room for a while, gathering up the  necessities. There was some bickering about what fell under that category, and Sansa was unenthused with such a small amount of things she could bring with her. 

What about her _dresses?_ The ones that had been custom made for her? What about her cloaks?- Especially the ones she’d embroidered herself.  _Septa Mordane had been so proud__._ It hurt to think about Septa Mordane, about the way Sansa had treated her in King’s Landing. She missed her septa _so_. It was too bitter to linger on her memory; to reflect that she only realized her remorse when she’d seen her septa’s severed head on a spike. 

Sansa was dragged out of her melancholy thoughts by Sandor, rasping out questions and shuffling around her chambers. Could Sansa bring her embroidery tools? Surely, they couldn’t take up too much space if she only brought the minimum... How would she occupy herself for all of their time on the King’s Road? 

“Sandor, my embroidery tools, my needles and threads, can we bring them,  _please_?” Sansa had noted throughout her childhood that parents were always defenseless against her _please’s_. She hoped Sandor would be the same. 

Sandor gave her a look of consideration. He looked like he planned to tell her that she couldn’t bring them, but denying her proved to be too hard for him and he nodded his head.

“Aye, little bird, but not in excess,” he turned away and opened her wooden wardrobe. “_Hells_, Sansa, do you have  _any_ gowns that would let you pass for a lowborn?” Sandor remarked rhetorically as he browsed through her gowns. “If you look like a princess, word of us will spread like the wildfire out there,” he gestured. 

The shade of her cheeks reddened staggeringly when he muttered the word  _princess_, he noticed. Sansa nodded in understanding, but she felt sadness in her gut over having to lose some of her favorite gowns. She didn’t want to say anything, in humility that he would scoff at her or tell her that she was spoiled, but she really was sad. 

She walked over and sorted through her gowns before pulling out a black gown. “Will this do, do you think?” She’d never actually worn the black dress before, but her lady mother told her that it would be best to bring it to King’s Landing to complete her wardrobe. 

Sandor nodded. Surely black would not tell of her status. “You’d do well to have a cloak.”

Sansa could feel her cheeks grow hot again as she looked at him and averted her gaze. 

“What?” He asked, confused as though a joke was being played on him. 

She glanced at a wooden chest against the wall. “Could I... bring... your... Kingsguard cloak...?” She asked slowly. 

“Sansa,” he rubbed his eyes, “its dangerous, if anyone were to see it. I suppose that we can take it, but you can’t have it out when we’re in public. I’m already recognizable enough.”

It was subtle, but she could hear the pain in his voice when he’d uttered the last bit. When she would make remarks about her appearance to her mother, Lady Catelyn would always have reassuring words to strengthen her confidence. Though Sansa couldn’t think of a single phrase for him, so instead she put her arms around him slowly and tenderly and let her head press against his chest. 

“Little bird...” he started to ask in a confused tone before Sansa quickly pulled herself from him. 

She mumbled something to herself before handing him the cloak and turning away. After that exchange, she’d taken care to to pack rags for her moon blood into a small bundle along with a few items from her vanity to keep her hygiene in check. Sandor scoffed and grumbled at her once he saw, but she ignored him and neatly packed them away. 

Sandor had already brought the bed rolls, along with his things, to her chambers, so they were able to roll her belongings up into a satchel without having to make any trips back to his own chambers. 

The rest was not so fun. The pair of them did not easily slide out of the castle unassumingly. After all, a nearly seven foot member of the Kingsguard side by side an obvious highborn girl? It was exhilarating, at the very least. 

She’d taken off her shoes so that she could run more quietly, and followed the non-knight closely. He was _quick_, which surprised her more than she would admit to him. It had become evident to her in their exchanged that Sandor’s ego was sensitive. He checked back often to make sure that she was still behind, but he seldom slowed his pace. 

Fortunately, Sandor hadn’t needed to cut anyone down by the time they reached the stables. His massive black horse was fierce and while she watched them more closely, the collective mannerisms between both of them gave Sansa a curiosity. 

Sandor lured Stranger out with a piece of fruit and helped the girl seat herself on the old saddle. He fiddled with the bedrolls which were packed and almost overflowing with things. There was quite an uneven ratio of his belongings versus the little bird’s, but the truth was that he just didn’t have much. After, he climbed atop behind her and shuffled the reins between his fingers. 

She mumbled something inaudible and he fought himself to keep quiet and not inquire as to what she said in fear that he might sound like a bloody fool. Or worse, a  green boy. 

They were so  _close_ and she was brushing up to his chest.  _Gods_,  the scent of her was making it hard for him to think about anything else. He wanted to pull her to the ground and drown in her long, red hair.  _What is that sweet oil? Did she bring some of it along? Gods, is it just her?_

But, alas, he gripped the reins in frustration and kicked Stranger into a trot, trying to forget his fantasies. His arms enclosed her as he held the reins and for a moment he was overcome with pride at the suggestion of protecting her. 

She reached out slowly, and with calculation, and closed her dainty hand around his fist before leaning back _ever so slightly_ into his chest. It was just enough contact for him to stir in his seat. 

He tried to keep his wits as best he could as Stranger trotted the two of them to the gate of the city. “We’re going far away from here, little bird.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s been a hot minute


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was getting too long! Possibly a continuation in the next one...

Ch. 11

“Sansa!” the Hound grumbled and made to jolt away from the fingers that she had in his hair. 

“_Stay _ _still_ and I’ll do my best to get the knots out without hurting you,” she replied gently, as though soothing a child, though she tightened her grip in his locks all the same.  _Gods_, he might as well have been a child. 

Sandor had not even thought to bring a comb, and hers was too wide to get the knots out. His hair was  _fine, _and it seemed as though a simple gust of the wind would snarl it right up.

They’d been riding for about a week, Sandor had told her in estimation, and making camp each night in the best attempts at a remote space. 

Today they made camp early, solely because they’d seen a short, beaten path with a modest body of running water in the distance. Between the two of them and Stranger, it would do well to catch up on hydration... and hygiene. 

Sansa had turned around while they were still on horseback and seen his snarled nest of a head and she almost fainted. 

Okay, she didn’t almost faint, in truth. However, the sight of his chaotic, almost infested-looking hair had been enough for her to cringe and scold him like a septa. 

He had not wanted her to dissect his hair, that was sure. He’d chuckled at her and then immediately declined when she’d asked at first, which felt like some sort of mockery and hurt her feelings more than she would verbally admit. 

_But why did he object to this?_ It was difficult for Sansa to conjure up reasons why he would not enjoy her physical attention on him. This would not be a  _sexual_ act, of course, but it  _was_ an indulgent. She’d always loved it when her mother or her maids would comb and braid through  her hair. _And he’d seemed so keen on her touch. _

Perhaps it was her silence that got to him, but not so long after he had denied her, he mumbled as he was rolling out his makeshift bed. 

“Alright, little bird, fine,” the Hound said, defeated by her yet again. “Do as you please with my hair.”

A smile overcame Sansa’s face and she let him notice. She stood up and wandered over to Sandor as he stood over his bedroll. Looking up with the sweetest expression, she tugged on his hand until he had the notion to follow her down to the small brook. 

Sansa had the bar of soap and a flagon of their water in her hands, as well as the comb. She pushed on his shoulders and he sat back on the grass. 

She stood over him with the container of water and tilted his head back. 

“Shut your eyes,” the little bird bid him softly and poured the water onto his hair. 

His hair darkened even more when she wet it, which was surprising because of how stunningly black it already was. 

In evident displeasure, he groaned. She knew the water would be chilly on his scalp and it was clearly dripping down into his tunic, but nevertheless, he _needed_ a wash. 

Once his hair was soaked through, she glided the bar of soap across until the locks were sudsy. Then, she used her fingers to massage the soap into his scalp until she was satisfied that every strand was cleaned to satisfaction. 

Letting him sit for a moment, she bent to refill the flagon in the brook. Quickly afterwards, Sansa tousled his hair in her fingers and rinsed out the soap as best as she could.

“How do you feel?” Sansa asked him smugly, knowing that she was due for a wash as well. She could wash once they were finished here. 

“I’d feel better if you were to give me a _proper_ wash,” he told her flatly despite the lewd insinuation. 

”_Sandor!_” She smacked the side of his arm and he chuckled.

Sansa wrung his hair out as best as she could and positioned herself cross-legged behind his back. 

She used her wide-tooth comb first to separate his knots into small tangles, though the wash that she gave him had done a lot of the hard work for her. He still complained as she detangled him and Sansa did the best she could despite his grumbles. For such a seasoned warrior, he had quite a sensitive scalp- save the burned sections. 

Sansa chirped to him as she went through his hair, in an effort to distract him from any pain he might experience from the tugging. 

When she’d finished with the wide-tooth comb, she went back in with her fingers and tried to separate the small knots as carefully as she could. Sandor felt like such a little boy under her touch. He almost felt... innocent. 

“Sandor...” the little bird started with a curious hesitation. 

“Aye, little bird, spit it out,” he urged. 

“Well...” she began again as her fingers played with his fine locks, “I was wondering if maybe I could..... braid.. your hair...”

Sandor tightened, “Absolutely _not_, little bird. I don’t mean to look the part of a buggering _princess_.”

“Sandor, please!”  _Oh no_ , she sounded too eager. She quickly added, “It’s just that... your hair is so... beautiful. I really, really want to braid it.”

_Beautiful?_ Had she actually said as much? Was the girl out of her  _bloody mind?_ Or, better yet,  _had she any eyes to see his foulness? Gods_, to hear her use the word “beautiful” when referring to him was a shock in the gut. It’d also made him salivate a little and he swallowed in realization. 

“Alright...” Sandor said quietly, “but nothing too  _flashy_.” He grumbled at her under his breath and stared at his hands, which rested in his lap. 

For a while, and much to his pleasure, the little bird rubbed his treacherous scalp with her fingertips. She scratched him like a behaved canine, and slowly dragged her fingers through the strands to make sure that no stubborn knots remained. 

The wetness of his head was almost gone now and left his hair only slightly damp. Sandor found himself leaning back against her touch and soon he could feel Sansa pushing him back upright. 

“_Sorry_, little bird,” he murmured not-so-apologetically. This occurrence, of her doing up his hair, was one he wanted to behold more often in the future. Surely she would want to do this again by the way she enthused about it the first time, or at least he hoped.

“It’s okay,” said Sansa cheerfully and he knew she hadn’t minded. “Just please sit  _still,_” she asked as she tugged on the silky locks. 

And so he did.  Between her attentions and description of his hair as  _beautiful_, his groin started to ache. He felt unmanned to be _wooed_ by such a girlish compliment, but it was likely the purest compliment he’d ever been given. _Hells_, it was likely the only compliment he’d ever been given. Any pain he felt at her pulling through the knots turned almost instantly to pleasure and to his dismay, he realized that she’d won without having any awareness that a game was being played. 

Sansa moved to his front and stayed at her knees while she sectioned off three pieces and combed through them. Though soon, her kneecaps ached and she craved a change of position. 

“Would you mind if...” Sansa nudged her left knee at the dip between his legs in an effort to part them, waiting for his approval. 

Sandor spread his legs and let her straddle his left thigh. As soon as she was in his lap, his heartbeat multiplied incredibly and he hoped desperately that she didn’t notice.  Her dress was a great pile around her but it did little to dull the sensations between them. 

Sansa chose to give him a thin braid on the left side of his face, right next to his burns. She sectioned off three locks and braided them loosely together to frame that side of his face. 

He watched her as she wove with focus through his hair, and afterwards as she untied a dark blue ribbon from her wrist and fastened it to the tips of the strands. 

Sansa looked wondrously into his grey eyes before climbing off of him to shuffle to her original position, behind his back. The look left him feeling a little stunned; likely due to his already-vulnerable state.

He was pleased that she’d left the under-layers of his mane loose once she began the second braid. She knew how he liked to keep his burned side hidden and took care to protect him from vulnerability. 

Instead, she tilted his head back and began a braid at the center of his hairline, and brought it straight back through his head. Sansa untied another blue ribbon from her wrist and tied the braid so that it hung comfortably over the loose hair that curtained his head. Tilting his head once more, she returned to the beginning of the braid and gently tugged at the strands to fluff them up. 

Once she’d finished, Sansa played with his hair for a while, curling the ends through her fingertips. She unfolded her legs and rested them so that they framed his own legs perfectly. Her torso was right up against his back and for once  _he_ felt protected. The little bird made him feel safe in a way that he must not have felt since he was a babe, if he’d ever truly felt any security then. 

She carefully swept the hair to the left side to expose his neck. The skin there was soft on the right side and she leaned her face in to press her lips to it in a kiss. She curled her hands around and onto his chest when she’d done it, too, and he was left more than a little taken aback. 

A tremble ran through his spine at the feel of her and he felt his heart rate multiply yet again.

Sandor was stunned, again, and left with nothing to do. He wasn’t sure how to act, what she wanted, so he only sat back and enjoyed her. 

Sansa lingered for a moment or so on his neck before pulling back and resting her fingers at the creases where his hips met his thighs. 

By the time she pulled away, he was almost panting. The kiss, her soft lips- and now her hands so close to his... It was just enough stimulation to be unbearable. 

How long had they been at this? An hour? More? He felt like he’d been hard for ages. The sun was going to set soon. 

Once the little bird started grinding her feet against his calves... started pressing those fingertips into his hips... he was done for. 

“_Enough_, little bird,” Sandor wrapped his fingers around the hands she’d set on him and slowly led them towards his crotch. 

Sansa gasped in surprise and he grinned widely even though she couldn’t see him. She didn’t exert any pressure, but instead only let him guide her hands over his breeches.

_He was stiff as he could be_, she realized and wondered how long it had been so. 

Sandor held both of her hands in one firm, flat grasp against his groin and used the other to tug at the laces of his breeches. 

“Sandor...” she said cautiously into his neck. 

“Please, Sansa,” he practically whined as he slipped her hands under the coarse fabric. “Touch me.” 

The begging did something for her, that was true, especially from this warrior, but she’d already been lusting for him. _And_ to hear him say her name like that? She tugged him slowly away from his breeches before wrapping her right hand around his manhood and putting the other firmly against the hair at his pelvis. 

In return, Sandor gripped the outsides of her knees tightly for leverage. Sansa did her best to think back to how he liked to be touched from the night in her chambers. She stroked him slowly, tightly, and then sped up gradually until she felt that familiar sensation of liquid easing down the base. 

She moved her right hand to his tip and spread the liquid over him with her thumb. Sansa brought her free hand to his shaft and stroked him quickly while the other caressed his tip. 

“Am I doing it right?” Sansa asked with insecurity as her hands ran across his length. 

“Aye, keep going,” he moaned and Sansa could feel her skin wash over with lust. 

Sansa kept at it and kissed his neck again. In response, Sandor tilted his head back against her shoulder. She breathed slowly against the warm skin and shut her eyes, puckering her lips and kissing the side of his throat with slow repetition. 

Without any warning, Sandor cocked his head forward, gripped her hands and slowed the pace down. Before she had anytime to process what had happened, he found his pleasure and made a mess of her cream-colored fingers. 

”Seven _hells_, little bird,” he panted.

He only took a few moments to regain himself before taking her hands in his to wipe them off on his tunic. He eased his breathing and tucked back into his breeches before turning around and leaning above her on his knees. 

Sansa only had a moment to look into his eyes, which had become molten with lust, before he swiftly moved in and covered her frame with his own. His braids swayed with their unfamiliar weight as he bent his head to kiss her. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iiiiiis this my longest chapter? 🤔 I think so 
> 
> More soon, yay for holiday break.

Chapter 12 

Sandor woke covered in sweat and slashed his arms anxiously out of his bedroll. It took a moment to realize that there was no threat. 

He was panting as well, and realized that there was a liquid more than just perspiration on his face. He touched his cheek and felt a wet line across the skin.  _Tears_. _Gods, again?_

After a moment of regaining his breath, he sat up and looked around, gauging his surroundings. The sky was black as pitch; it must’ve been the middle of the night. He looked and saw a bag of supplies a few feet away and his sword a bit closer, right near the bedroll.

Sandor had a look at himself, trailing his eyes down his body, which was still mostly beneath the thick fabric of his bedroll. 

All of it took up just barely a moment before his eyes washed to the right and he saw Sansa.

Their bedrolls were pushed close, almost overlapping. She gaped at him, frozen and wearing a shaken expression.

The two of them, having both just burst awake, stared at each other for a few moments as they became reoriented with reality.

“Little bird...” Sandor rasped lowly, quickly distinguishing the images from the land of subconsciousness from their current status. Reality was not much more comforting.

The water was near, in view. The same brook with the grassy spot where the little bird washed and braided his hair. He looked at it briefly, images floating in and out of his mind of what Sansa had done to him _afterwards_.

His focus switched to the coals ahead. Within each one remained small orange glints. They were just far enough away for him to remain comfortable.

“Sandor,” she said somewhat slowly, seeming unsure of what words to look for. Her Tully eyes were nervous, presenting the idea that he’d done something in his sleep that struck her nerves. “You’re trembling.”   


_Gods, she looks so bloody scared_. She hadn’t looked at him that way in so long, and he hadn’t longed for those looks again. 

He felt it- the tremble- running into his fingers and causing his lip to unwillingly quiver. 

“Aye, that I am,” he agreed, unsure of what the hells to say to her.

Sansa reached out to still him, her hand on his hand. “You were dreaming.”

After a thoughtful hesitation, he rubbed insecurely at his tear-stained cheeks. “I was burning,” he remained nonchalant even as his breathing strayed and his heartbeat quickened, as though he were actually choking on smoke.

Sansa scooted forward and put her palm to his burned cheek, her other arm on his shoulder to steady herself. The smooth pads of her fingers groped his marred face and she observed him as though she’d never seen him before.

The fingers that touched his cheek were too light, therefore the only sensation he could feel was the scarred skin moving ever so slightly. The way that she was looking at him though, that was surely a sensation of its own.

“You were very...” Sansa focused on his eyes. The reflection of the orange-glinted coals flickered in his pupils. “ _Loud_ ,” her own eyes twinkled from the stars that blanketed the sky.

As Sandor noticed the white specks, he was briefly...  _envious_ of her dreaminess. He was envious of her for the way that he desired her. No one had ever fucking desired  _him_ before, but surely any lordling in  _Westeros_ would be in each of the seven heavens to wed  _ Sansa Stark. _

It was a twisted thing to be jealous of her and he knew it. It certainly wasn’t any fault of the little bird to be so  _desirable_ and  _highborn_, even if Sandor hadn’t wanted any part of her class. While his entire life had been miserable, he couldn’t say that hers had always been a walk in the Godswood, either.

“Pardons if I interrupted your sleep,” Sandor mumbled, lacking any conviction as a result of his sulkiness.

“I don’t want your  _false courtesies_,” she contorted her face and mimicked him dramatically, in some attempt to make him forget whatever seriousness he lingered in.

Initially, he was confused, possibly still in a lulled state of dreams, but he caught on quick enough. It was a jape. 

She had good intentions, that was true, but the memory was a torment and it was hard to swallow. Sandor made to chuckle but instead, out came some sort of throaty wheeze and- once he’d heard the pathetic noise- tears slipped from his protesting eyes before he could stop them.

“It was only a dream,” she tried.

“It wasn’t,” he argued, shutting his eyes, unable to be properly angry as a tear spilled down his cheek.

“It  _was_,” she insisted, putting her other hand on his _normal_ cheek and caressing him softly, offering this tender, molten smile. She comfortingly shrugged at him, “Only a dream.”

For a while, Sandor was still too uneasy to move. He could only sit in front of her, completely unnerved by the internal question of how many times she’d witnessed him cry like a little boy.  _Gods, a nightmare?  Buggering child’s play._

He scowled.

“None of that,” she told him. Pulling at his hand, she made to bring him back into her bedroll. “Come here,” she bade him, too sleepy for any negotiations.

When Sansa and her siblings would wake in the night, distraught and crying from a horrific dream, Lady Catelyn would comfort them with her touch. Maybe that’s all Sandor needed, too.

Half reluctantly, he waited for her to finish her preparations. The little bird was unfolding the thick fabric of her bedroll to make room for him. Despite his reluctance, his heart clenched as he watched her, noting her patience and tenderness with him even when it was at her inconvenience. 

Sansa positioned herself into the center and gestured for him to follow. At her will, Sandor reached and threw his cloak over his back before descending slowly over the little bird’s soft frame. The cloak would cover them both, but her bedroll would not. It wasn’t a particularly cold night, though the material had always provided him with slight psychological comfort.

She parted her legs and his hips sank between them, while his head lay against her chest. Sandor settled his hands on the bedroll next to either side of her torso.

From the moment that he fell against her, he had started chasing this new _peace_. The horrors of his incendiary nightmares were not  _allowed_ here. Particularly, because he couldn’t think about much else than the feeling of her body beneath his.

“Had you been dreaming, too?” He asked in such a lull that it didn’t sound much of a question at all.

“Yes,” she replied, but there was more.

“What of?”

“My,” she began almost as if she didn’t know, “my...  _mother._” She hadn’t wanted to say it. There was too much pain. 

_Would her lady mother be angry at her? Blame her for her father’s execution?_ As of late, Sansa couldn’t stop thinking about it. The pair of them would eventually make it to where Robb resided, and then Sansa would have to go before them.  _Gods, _she hoped that her mother wouldn’t blame her_. _

“I’m...” _Say it. _He’d only said it out of masked obligation for the past fifteen years. Yet... the little bird _deserved it_ from him. “_Sorry_,” Sandor told her, and it was genuine. The word was so unfamiliar, it was hard to muster out, in truth. 

He’d given her the courtesy earlier, when they were by the brook, though he’d not meant it. _That_ apology was meant to tease her, and it had worked. This apology, however, this was supposed to comfort her- a skill in which he lacked completely. 

“It’s okay,” she said gently as she intertwined her fingers in his hair. She fingered the loose locks carefully so as not to disturb the braids that she’d given him earlier.

There was silence for a long while, but he knew that she’d not been taken by sleep because her fingers kept up their movements against his scalp. Sandor began to stroke the inside of her arm to let her know that he was still awake as well and enjoying her attention.

“You really do look pretty,” she said with a voice sweet like a siren. While she’d been _thinking_ it, it wasn’t a well-thought out thing to say. Sansa’s fingers stilled quickly in his hair, “With the braids, I mean,” she quickly added.

Now,  _that_ made his heart do a sort of waltz in his chest. No one had ever told him that before. Not even _before_ the burns. The impact of her words was heightened by the obviousness that she hadn’t  _meant_ to say it. The compliment had come out accidentally, which warmed him further.

It was a unique thing to hear of himself and he lingered on it. Though the more he did so, the more insecure he became. She _hadn’t _ _meant_ _ to say it_. His lack of beauty was not  subjective and the time of day was the only thing that was keeping him from growling at her more harshly.

“That’s folly,” Sandor said, his ear still against her chest.

“You wouldn’t know,” she trailed her fingers down his scalp and onto his neck. “You can’t see yourself.”

“Aye, that’s true. But I know my face enough to know that it’s not  _pretty_.”

“That’s only your opinion.”

“It’s a common opinion among us who’ve got eyes,” he spat back, seeming very stirred by her innocent compliment.

That stung, in truth. Though she could tell it wasn’t quite an attack against her. “I have eyes, and I think otherwise.”

Sandor grunted and propped himself up on his hands, glaring at her, “Scars covering half my buggering face and you’ve the nerve to tell me I’m  _pretty_? I’m not a  _groomed knight, _Sansa, I’m not-” he abruptly halted. 

The sudden movements were a shock to her fatigued state, and he’d been keeping her so warm... She moved to sit in front of him. 

She’d struck a nerve, that much was evident. He was back on his haunches, still between her knees and not much short of looming over her.

“You  _are_,” Sansa said slowly, as though approaching a bear. She brushed her knuckles over his burned cheek. “Pretty, I mean... I thought it was clear... that I thought as much.”

His face contorted in disbelief and disgust. “ _Clear?”_

_What is he talking about?_ This outburst was beyond Sansa. What did he think was going on between them? Obviously she was not his  _whore._ Obviously she needn’t touch him unless she wanted to and, well... she  _wanted_ to.

“Yes,” she froze. “I thought that you  _knew_... how I  _felt_... about you.” 

Sandor looked strangely taken aback, and didn’t say anything for a while. His thoughts continued to trot along new paths as he repeatedly replayed her words.

“Don’t you?” Sansa asked, uncomfortable with his lack of response.

He turned his gaze back to her and shook his head slightly.

“But I told you so. In my chambers, I told you that I...  _wanted_ you,” she reminded him.

“Aye, perhaps you did, but-“ Sandor abruptly stopped again.

It was unclear what he’d been thinking and, in waiting, Sansa sat up fully and clasped her hand over his.

“_But_...” she prompted curiously, her eyes straining to stare at the details of fingers in the darkness. 

“But standing next to that little prick who murdered your father, I mustn’t look so bad, even...  _with_ the scars.”

She shook her head slowly, looking grim. “No,” Sansa stated firmly, rubbing the outside of his hand. “No, I _want_ you,” and it was clear; she’d meant it.

“For true?” Sandor asked, shocked. Even  _he_ could hear the pathetic hope in his voice. The hope that someone could actually _want him, _anything to _do _with him. 

And now he scolded himself for being too daft. _Gods, should he have known this whole time?_ That her sweet touches meant something? It seemed so, by the way she insinuated how _buggering obvious _it was. 

The exchange was becoming ridiculous. How long had they been awake? How long ago was it that he’d woken her with his cry? It seemed like ages, and  _Gods, how surprised can he truly be?_ Sansa wanted to laugh.

She picked up his hands and set them in her lap, still tight in her grasp. “Yes, Sandor,” she submitted to a soft chuckle, unable to stifle it. “Please lay back down,” she requested, rubbing her arms when a gust of wind came by, “I’m cold.”

Sandor put his hands on the little bird’s shoulders to prompt her to move over, and then repositioned himself in the center of her bedroll. He reached for her softly under the arms and gestured to pull her over him, descending on his back. 

She took the cloak with her, as he’d done.  This position would be more preferable for sleep for Sansa. 

She’d liked to have him above her because she felt in control as she held him in her arms, and she felt like she was protecting him.

Though now that she was on top of him, she wouldn’t have to worry about cramping in her sleep under his limbs. He would be able to move if he needed to, but she couldn’t in that position.

“Do you _truly_?” Sandor asked again, evidently lingering on her words longer than the conversation had gone. 

He couldn’t help it, he was excited and curious and nervous and disbelieving.

Her legs were directly on top of his; their bodies lined up almost perfectly. Sansa wiggled forward up his body and stroked his hair. “I want you, for true,” she promised.

“But how can you? I-“

“_Shush! _ _Please_,” she bade him urgently, grabbing his cheeks in her palms and resting her forearms on his shoulders. “_Please stop asking why_,” she requested with the same urgent tone.

“But I don’t understand, I have nothing- No  land, no  money, no  _claim- _Only a face full of scars and I sword that I bear well enough.” His voice didn’t come in strained, though soon enough Sansa felt liquid meeting her skin and she realized that he was tearing again.

She brushed the tears away with her thumbs, “None of that,” she said in a plea. “I don’t want those things if they come with the cost of marrying a _monster_,” Sansa replied, stroking his cheekbones. She lowered her face to kiss his bottom lip.

Her eyes were full of dreams, he could see it. “_You_ are not a monster,” she told him. 

“I’m _close enough_. I certainly  look like-“

Enough light came from the moon, but he still didn’t notice the little bird as she made to put her hand over his mouth.

“Stop,” she told him and it was not a jape. “I _don’t_ want to hear you say it again. Ever.”

She lifted her hand from his mouth after a moment, to make sure that he understood.

It was a peculiar thing for certain, to have someone be defensive over him. It bothered the little bird, truly, to hear him berate himself. It  _hurt_ her. Shivers traveled through him. Sandor cared about the little bird, and that was enough. He was a simple man, in that aspect. He would not do it again. At least, not if he could help it.

Not to say that he truly _believed_ her honeyed words... though it would be  folly to say that they did not chip away at his wall of self-hatred, if even just a little.

“I’ll try not to, Sansa,” Sandor told her genuinely.

She let herself relax against his chest, laying her head down beneath his collar.

There was silence for another period of time before the she spoke again. 

“I like it when you call me ‘Sansa’,” the little bird hummed.

“More than ‘little bird’?” Sandor asked, brushing her hair away neatly and wrapping his hands around her back. 

“I like that, too,” she admitted.

“I’ll protect you, you know, I said I would and I will,” he offered, insecurely remembering his admissions to her early about having _nothing _to give her. “Always.” He pulled her a little tighter as well, as though that would convince her. 

She raised her head again to gaze at him, “I believe you.” 

The little bird stared into the reflection of the moon within his pupils, now that the light of the night sky was cast on him. She brought her fingertips to his burned cheek again and caressed the scar tissue as though it meant nothing to her. 

The notion made him feel incredibly vulnerable, as it always had, even despite its tenderness. 

“Do you think,” she began to ask softly, her face just a few inches from his, “you will be able to sleep again?”

“Aye, I think so,” he chuckled at her question, pressing his fingertips into her back to gently massage her. “Go to sleep, little bird, it’s alright.”

She closed her eyes and kissed him, her fingers tangling in his hair. It was a slow kiss, and she pulled back for a moment, her dark eyes opening and pooling into his, and she moved in to kiss him again. 

Sandor gave her a quiet, drawn out moan and she pulled back giggling.

He closed his eyes and grinned up at her, realizing her attempt to tantalize him. “You tease me, little bird,” he curled his arms around the small of her back and pulled her against him. 

“_Aye_,” she mimicked dramatically, giggling some more, before resting on him with her face towards his neck. 

“We’ll see what we can make of your _teasing_ tomorrow,” he threatened facetiously. 

Sansa groaned softly, as though a response, and shifted slightly against him. She resolved her opinions from earlier about the position; this arrangement was incredibly comfortable. 

The beat of his thunderous heart against her chest served as a sweet lullaby, rocking her softly. And his fingers on her back as well- they were soothing and she’d wished that her shift was not such an offensive barrier, dulling the sensation that she would’ve felt had her skin been bare to him. 

Sleep would take her in no time at the rate of the comfort he was providing her, so she lifted her head lazily to offer a last kiss to his chest, wishing his skin was bare to her. 

“I really _do_ think you’re pretty,” she mumbled out with her eyes still dreamily closed, poking her fingertips into the side of his chest. 

“Think you’d still beat me in a pageant, little bird.” 

A giggle came out of her, though it was dulled by her sleepy state. It seemed as if she would retort something very charming back at him, but she’d been cheated out of the thought by her fatigue. 

She prodded him through his tunic softly until she couldn’t bear it anymore and her fingers collapsed lazily to the bedroll’s bottom. 

It was truly a pleasure to just be in her presence. The little bird... was such a curious creature, always chirping at him sweetly; enthralled by fantasies despite all of her tragedy. 

She was so  kind with him,  too kind- far kinder than he deserved. _Would it ever expire?_ Would the little bird ever realize her worth compared to his and change her mind about him? 

No matter her feelings for him, they’d likely not get a choice before her kingly brother.

_What the hells was he going to do when they arrived? _


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger warning— Lannister soldiers pop in for a visit & try to sexually assault our little bird. She’s not raped, but there is heavy groping before the Hound murders them all. 
> 
> While a lot of the fics I’ve read have been explicit in stating upcoming graphic scenes, quite a few of them haven’t & I just want to be utterly transparent about uncomfortable situations. The archive warning & rating options are explicit in themselves, but I juuuuuust want to make sure that everyone reading is safe & comfortable.

Ch 13

“Wake up, little bird,” Sandor nudged her shoulder. “We’ve got to ride today.”

The little bird was still on top of him, unwilling to change positions throughout the whole night. 

She made a protesting groan and squeezed him around the shoulders, trying to keep him from motion.

“I don’t want to get up just yet,” Sansa stated. 

“You can sleep for a few more minutes.”

“I don’t want _you_ to get up just yet,” she added. 

Sandor held her middle with his palms and flipped them over so that he rested on top of her. He wove his fingers into her hair and suckled the skin of her neck. 

“But we have to  _go_,” his voice fell half an octave as he rasped against her throat.  _He didn’t sound  too insistent_, Sansa noted. 

“I know,” she said casually, tilting her head back so he could access her with more ease. “But I don’t want to just yet.”

“I seem to have a recollection,” Sandor prodded the edges of her teats through her shift, “of a little bird teasing me yesterday.”

“Hmm...” Sansa gazed at the sky in mock curiosity. “Do you have a lot of little birds?” 

“Oh, yes,” he said dramatically. “I have them all over the kingdoms. Though there’s one in particular...” he ran over her stiff nipple with his thumb. 

“Sandor!” Sansa twitched and slapped at his hand. “I better be your only little bird.”

He chuckled heartily. At first, it appeared as though she’d minded the attention to her breast but to hear her jealousy at the concept of him seeing multiple  ladies ... It was warming, to say the least. 

Though, his laugh had disheartened her. Initially she took pride in his amusement, but it quickly soured when she considered that she’d made no jape. Her cheeks felt hot suddenly, feeling insecure beneath him, and she looked up at the sky.

“No, Sansa,” Sandor shifted up her body so that she would have to look at him. “No other little birds.” He brushed her hair off of her cheek with a finger and even tried to _smile_, though it  must’ve been horrid in the light. 

“_Closer_,” Sansa said, pulling under his arms. 

It was tempting. “No, little bird, we have to go.” Sandor moved off of her and held his hand out to lift her. The little bird didn’t seem amused. 

_Though how could she be?_ Highborn maidens are used to getting everything that they want, that’s true, though Sandor thought that she should’ve known better. He assumed that she’d rid herself of that expectation since  _Joff_ got to her. Since the boy made it to be his sole mission to suck every shred of happiness from the girl’s life, and for what? _Seven hells_, even _thinking_ of the bastard instilled a sort of toxicity. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll hold you close as you like once we’ve mounted Stranger.” 

Sansa let him help her up.

They parted ways. Sansa to the brook so that she may change privately (a notion at which Sandor scoffed, but gave her leave nonetheless) and Sandor to lean against a boulder nearby their bedrolls while he relieved himself. 

Once he’d finished, Sandor began to strip himself of his ripe, sweat-soiled clothing and created a pile to discard the material to his left. He didn’t care to expose the whole of his disgusting, marred skin to the wildlife. He hadn’t even dared show it to the little bird, _gods_, he’d probably scar her _further_. He granted her to touch him, his back, his cock- though, there was a chance she’d seen his cock since she’d fooled with him by the water- though adding the girl’s sight to their _green couplings_ was a different matter entirely. His body was comparable to a broken-in saddle. Used, disgusting, borderline _moldy_; no other way to put it. He took care to strategically replace singular garments with the slightly fresher rags he’d brought as spare. 

Fresh smallclothes, soot-grey breeches that were _mostly_ clean and an olive coloured tunic. The laces at his center were particularly tedious, Sandor thought, though it was possible that he just really wanted to leave. 

After attempting to cram the foul cloth into his satchel, Sandor removed one of their water skins, a strip of linen and a vial. He wet the linen strip and applied a sizable pinch of the vial’s contents: ground rosemary and rock salt. Rolling the linen around his index finger, Sandor vigorously scrubbed each of his teeth and the crevices of his gums before swishing with water and spitting into the yellow-green blades of grass. 

After rubbing out the linen strip with water and two fingers and deeming it clean, he dropped the contents back into his boiled leather bag. Sandor felt cleaner in truth, though not as satisfied as though he’d bathed. While he wished for hot water and a true featherbed for his back, he could go much longer than this without those luxuries. 

Surely the little bird wasn’t holding out so well. As he’d contemplated earlier, the girl was used to all sorts of pampering that they couldn’t have right now. Sandor thought he might like to let her teach him how to be  good to her, how to  please her- In fact, little would be more rewarding, though what would it all be for when they knelt before the  King in the North  and he had to give her away? 

Hells, he would’ve preferred to take the wrong road  accidentally and get the two of them lost in another realm. 

Yet Sandor knew he couldn’t. Sansa deserved more than folly, and he’d  _promised._ _Gods_, this is what vows got him. No, he’d return her safely and his only hope was that her kingly brother wouldn’t cut his head from his neck. Or worse, send him elsewhere, back to the life he’d been living before the little bird. 

He rolled their bedding unceremoniously and tied it in two heaps on Stranger’s back, behind the saddle, and gave his black courser a few pats where Sandor knew he would like it. 

It’d been a while, though he’d gathered that the little bird liked to take care when freshening herself and she’d been mortified one time when Sandor interrupted her. She was used to maids pampering her, not having dirt for a pillow and shitting in the woods. Sandor had scrambled away from her then and when she returned later, red as a beet, he only laughed hysterically. She had claws though, that was true- and she’d denied him later in the night when he tried to wrap around her. After learning that the little bird would withhold herself from him, it was an easy decision to take a lot of extra care to mind her when she required space. 

Sandor would give her a few more moments, though he would prefer that they left quickly. In the meantime, he rummaged the pile of his armor and clumsily shuffled each piece, one by one over his clothing layer. Once he was clad in metal, Sandor bent to grab his sword and slid it into the belt at his hip. 

He turned to overlook the brook. From their camping spot, the line where water met land was not visible. The terrain lowered at a dip, so to see Sansa, he would’ve had to have been closer. 

“Little bird!” Sandor called out. “We have to go; you can polish the rest of your feathers  later.”

No response. 

“Sansa?” He asked cautiously, approaching the dip of the land and wrapping his sword hand around the hilt. 

When he made it to the edge, where the terrain switched from yellow-green grass to rock and mud and soil, Sandor saw her. 

The little bird was bent face down over some crimson-cloaked cunt’s lap, her wrists twisted the wrong way and held at her lower back, along with her skirts. Sandor could only see the back of the man who had her in his grasp, covering her mouth with his free hand. There were two more men dressed in crimson, both fair-faced. One with long, sand-coloured hair, the other with shorter, unkept black locks. The three of them had removed their helmets and each of them loosened and stripped of choice pieces of armor. One of them had untucked from his breeches and was palming himself in preparation of her.

The other palmed  _Sansa._ The knight had her smallclothes halfway down her thighs, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arse. They were making _small talk_ over who would fuck her first and _where_. 

As soon as Sandor appeared, they all looked up save the little bird, who was incapable. 

He was level with them, sword drawn, before a second thought.

The knight standing by quickly shuffled his cock back into his breeches urgently while the man holding the little bird looked up, aggravated. 

The man who palmed her took his hands off of Sansa’s freshly-reddened arse and held them up in defense, as though Sandor was overreacting. “Easy, ser,” he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. “Is she yours?” 

“Aye, she’s  _mine_,” Sandor answered, disgusted. 

“We didn’t see anyone else, ser,” he replied as though it were a reasonable defense. 

“We meant to have a go at her...” said the knight holding Sansa, studying Sandor’s face oddly. “Wait...” he squinted and wrinkled his brows. “You’re the king’s dog!” It seemed as though he’d meant this observation to be some sort of persuasive method, as though this would guarantee him a “go” at her.

“Not anymore,” he muttered and in a moment Sandor was on the first knight, the ‘bystander’. The knight was too slow to draw his sword. Sandor moved in and the man staggered back, his arms raised defensively as he attempted to beg for mercy. Sandor didn’t hesitate. He raised his sword to the knight’s shoulder and slashed it downwards brutally, digging through mail. He fell with a gash from chest to hip. 

The next knight came at Sandor with his sword drawn, bringing it to strike his side. Sandor parried the blow. This knight fought poorly, though possibly not for a mere lack of skill. His body was ahead of his mind, it seemed; he had no strategy. Didn’t even appear that he was thinking at all really, just swinging miserably. Sandor parried every incoming strike and as the man began to tire, he wobbled and fell back. Preparing to end him, Sandor moved in and pulled back his sword. 

“Stop!” called out the third knight. 

Halting, Sandor whirled to the right. The knight below him tried to twist and to hold him still, Sandor pressed the tip of his sword into his chest. The last man held Sansa twisted in his grip still, the two of them now standing. Though now his dagger was out and pressed between the little bird’s teats. It was clear that they’d ripped the front of her gown, for her breasts were almost entirely bare surrounding the dagger which lay at her heart. 

“Kill him and she dies,” came an ultimatum from the third knight. 

Sandor growled deep in his throat. “ _Let her go_. ” 

It was hardly a request. And the two knights knew it. Knew of his status in Westeros, knew of his animalistic tendencies. The presence he was emitting took them aback clearly and they took to approach him with caution if they had any intention of leaving with their lives, as though he was a true rabid  _dog._

This had never happened to him before in a fight. Nothing of the sort, in fact. Every scrap that he’d had, Sandor never had a thing to lose beside his own life, but now? His heart raced with unwelcome fear. _What the fuck_ was he going to do if one of these cunts put a blade in her? _Gods, never again, Sansa. _

“Let  _him_ go,” the man spat back, his knuckles whitening on his hilt. 

Sandor complied, with no other choice, lifting his sword slowly off of the second knight’s chest and kept his peripheral vision locked on the man as he struggled out of his grip. 

In a flash, as the second knight was staggering over to his mate, a blade exploded out of his chest. His features went cold before Sansa, black-looking blood leaking from his aghast mouth. He began to wobble forwards, having been pushed that direction by the blow. He fell face first to the ground soon, his chest continuing to thrash as blood spilled over the dirt.

Before either Sansa or the last knight could process what’d happened, Sandor pivoted. Abruptly, he yanked the little bird out of the man’s arms and caught him in the hollow of his neck. The man’s blade fell from his palm, the edge slick with blood, and onto the dirt. Once the sword withdrew, a wide stream of blood gushed violently from the torn artery and out of the man’s mouth. This one didn’t take long. Ran out of blood too quickly, which continued trickling down his front long after the knight’s last breath left him. 

Though Sandor didn’t linger on the bastard a moment longer than necessary. He spun to tend to Sansa. 

“Little bird,” said Sandor urgently, reaching her and turning her towards him. 

_Ow,_ she couldn’t differentiate whether she’d said it out loud or simply thought the complaint. Her dress was ripped down the chest in two places. One tear, done by hand by the Lannister soldiers and the other from the blade. She let Sandor push her onto the grass, all three crumpled bodies still in immediate view. 

_Fuck, I shouldn’t have_ , “I shouldn’t have left you alone,” he told her, spreading her ripped dress further down to access the cut. 

It could’ve been worse, like if she’d been stabbed in the heart. No, she wouldn’t die. The lack of mortality of the situation was the only redeemable factor. The wound was long, sort of diagonal. A slice right under her first rib, on the right side of her body. It was deepest at the left, though not so deep, and became shallow until it receded into a thin line at her center, right at her heart. Sandor didn’t think to bring ointments. He did bring spare cloth in anticipation of injuries- though he prepared those for himself. He really didn’t plan on the little bird getting hurt. 

The tone that he gave her hinted anger, which wasn’t what she expected based on her past experiences of getting hurt. Maester Luwin was always gentle and calm when he tended to injuries, but Sandor seemed as though he blamed her. 

“I’m sorry,” she pled, wincing and audibly expressing displeasure as he lifted her right breast to observe further, causing the wound to stretch apart. 

“Be still,” he bade, ripping a clean strip of her dress to press to the spot that was bleeding most heavily. “Did they hurt you anywhere else? _Gods_, I shouldn’t have fucking let you stay down here for so long. _Not again_, Sansa.”

“It’s not your fault,” she offered, breathing quickly at the pain. Her eyes were puffy and irritated-looking and stinging-red. “They put their hands on me,” Sansa glanced at the by-standing knight and trembled. “They started to touch me _there_, and they said terrible things about me... but you came before they could really hurt me.” Her air was coming out quickly, quicker than he would have liked. “I think they would have killed me when they were done,” she began to weep- though she was holding herself. 

“Don’t think about that.” He had no taste for the idea himself. “You don’t have to talk about it if it’s too much,” he said, feeling sick himself and struck with a boiling temper. “And don’t look at them. It won’t help.” Sandor stood slowly, taking her in his arms as though she was his bride. “I’m taking you to the nearest inn I can find. You shouldn’t be out here like this, all this dirt- you need to bathe, to clean it.” He began rambling to himself in jumbled thoughts, moving too quickly between them to allow her focus or true understanding. 

Sandor carried her up the beaten path until they reached their camping spot. He laid her down on the grass and unsheathed his dagger. He used it to cut the remaining fabric with, until the bust fell to the grass. While the little bird lay, Sandor scrambled for their water skin. Moving the torn bits to the side, he poured water onto the cut, doing his best to rinse it. When the liquid made contact with her wound, she flinched away. 

“Shh,” Sandor pressed two fingers against her side, away from the cut. More than most, he knew what she was going through. It would be a lie to say that he hadn’t been more severely injured, but this was different. She wasn’t used to this, didn’t do a thing to deserve it. “You’re going to be fine.” 

He used the scrap fabric to dab at the moisture and tied a few layers of widely-spun linen around her torso, sealing the wound. 

Though now the little bird was topless, save for the half-torn, bloodied smallclothes that concealed most of the same teats that he’d been playfully toying with less than an hour ago. 

Sandor scratched his scalp anxiously at the sight of her.  “Your other dress?” 

“It went into the brook. It’s gone,” she explained, obviously stricken that her finely-made gown had been washed downstream by a brook, and her other, ripped to shreds. 

Sandor looked at her a while and nodded. He began to unbuckle the pieces of his armor, starting with his left gauntlet. 

“What are you doing?” Sansa asked worriedly, moving to try at a full seat. 

“I’ve only got my tunic and breeches for you, little bird. Other ones are dirty.” He wasn’t excited about putting the stench-infested rags back on, though it was easy when he compared making _her_ wear them. He continued stripping his armor. 

“No, stop!” 

Sandor froze every muscle. “You don’t mean to proceed like _that_,” he asked, struck. 

“I mean,” Sansa started, “I can wear the dirty ones. You don’t have to do all of that.”

Sandor chuckled, “I won’t make you wear my soiled clothes.” Both gauntlets fell to the ground. 

“No... I... well,” the little bird started blushing profusely, “I want to.”

At her declaration, he gave her a questioning look. 

She explained, “Your smell... I don’t mind it. Well, I suppose I... _like_ it, actually.” 

_Oh_. A rare thing, for Sandor to feel heat creeping over his face. He felt like a fool suddenly. “Have it your way,” he moved to dig through his crammed satchel for a ball of wrinkled clothing and gave it to Sansa. 

She began to unravel the material when he snatched it from her abruptly. “Wait!” Sandor yelped and played with the fabric, strategically switching it around in his hands. 

Sansa returned a similarly questioning stare to the one he gave just a few moments ago, seeming expectant. 

“I forgot my smallclothes.” Sandor tucked a bundle into his arm. 

Sansa giggled and he felt the unwelcome heat in his face and neck again, returning the updated pile to her sans dirty smallclothes. She took care with her right arm as she applied the tunic, since the wound ached more every time she lifted it. 

When it was time to put on the breeches, she stood up, the entirety of the bottom half of her skirt still on and called Sandor’s attention. He’d finished reapplying his armor and swiftly move to aid her. 

“What is it? Are you alright?”

“Could you help me...? Out of my skirt, I mean...”

Sandor’s heart raced as he pictured the little bird disrobed during the broad daylight. In truth, he’d hardly noticed her indecent state when he was tending to her wound, though now his panic mode had switched off. With her back to him, Sandorsteeled himself and picked up his blade from the grass, slowly moving to slip it under the waistline of her gown. Carefully, as though not to contribute to the little bird’s injuries, he slipped the dagger along the material and it ripped easily. Gods, he could’ve ripped it through if he was so nervous about cutting her. 

_Bugger this_, Sandor thought, sheathing his blade and returning his fingers to the halves of fabric. He gripped them firmly and ripped a whole wide enough for the remains to fall instantly to the little bird’s ankles. She squirmed to cover herself now that the chill air was on the backs of her legs. 

Sandor chuckled heartily and stuffed the ripped fabric into the satchel while Sansa pulled his fitted breeches, well- fitted for him, over her womanly curves. She was lacing them up, her teeth gripping the bottom of the tunic so that she could see her waist. 

He could scarcely stop looking at her once she’d claimed herself decent. Even in his long breeches, so long that they bunched to three-quarters over her feet, his chestnut tunic extending halfway down her thighs, she made his heart halt in his chest.  _Seven buggering hells_, the little bird should’ve been thrown in a tower for being so bloody irresistible. Though it was possible that even _that_ wouldn’t deter him from climbing after her. 

“Let’s go,” he said sulkily, lifting her ever so carefully so as not to catch her under the rib. Once she was comfortably atop Stranger, he hauled over behind her, momentarily taking his breath away. 

*****

The ache in her chest worsened even though the impact of the slice had faltered. Sansa found that she couldn’t cough or laugh or even rotate her torso without destroying the working clot and bleeding freshly all over again. She leaned back into Sandor’s chest to rest though he didn’t hold her like he’d promised to earlier. 

“Are you upset with me?” asked the little bird after a long while. He wasn’t usually talkative on his own, though she could feel the poor energy radiating off of him. 

“No,” replied Sandor, his hands resting with the reins on either side of her hip. 

“I’m sorry anyway.”

“You’ve no fault.” 

“Then why...?” 

“I should’ve been there. Why are you so bloody stubborn? You can’t be alone out here, Sansa. I said I would protect you and I didn’t, which means that my word is just as good as your _true knights’_ vows.” 

“No, you did protect me. You’re _true_, Sandor, really-“

“Little bird,” he interrupted exasperatedly, bidding her to stop. 

“Thank you for saving me, Sandor.” She wouldn’t stop unfinished. “ _Again_ ,” Sansa added a moment later. 

She bit her lip for a few moments, wondering how much time should pass before it would be suitable to speak again. Before long, she found that she had too much to say and didn’t want to keep it in.

“Sandor...” she began, looking at where he held the reins and moving to trace her index finger gently over his knuckles. 

He twitched when Sansa touched him and she saw the reins wiggle as well. 

“Oh, the little bird has more to say, does she?”

Sansa smiled, though he couldn’t see, and leaned back into his chest. “I’m sorry that I scared you. I won’t go as far next time.”

She half expected him to argue with her, insist that she hadn’t _scared_ him, though an argument never came. Instead, he pushed the reins into her hands and wrapped his arms low around her stomach and held her as promised.

They passed through a flower patch early into the day’s ride and Sansa was quick to declare that she wished they were jonquils- since jonquils are her favorite flower. Sandor snarkily asked if they were her favorite because of the _legend_ of Florian and Jonquil, which she exclaimed was obvious. They debated about the tale for hours, it seemed, though somewhere in the conversation, Sandor had persuaded the little bird to sing it for him. The request warmed her deeply, though she asked if she could sing for him later because her chest was still truly aching. 

They rode steadily down a path for the rest of the day and deep into the evening. Soon enough, they came upon a hand-carved wooden sign, letting them know that they made it to the Inn at the Crossroads. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later than I hoped to get this out! I’ll actually be starting a new fic soon.


	14. Chapter 14

Ch. 14

The Hound, suited heavily in grey armor, walked closely behind a cloaked Sansa as they entered the planked double door at the Inn at the Crossroads. 

Most people didn’t seem to notice as the pair of them walked in, content on eating and drinking and laughing merrily. The only people who even looked up at them were the ones looking to meet their needs and take their coin. 

A short man with a worn-looking back and a crooked smile greeted them carefully. 

“Evening,” the short man said, eyes not quite relaxed as he looked at Sandor. “Will you be taking rooms? Or only feasting?”

“Aye,” said Sandor, “a room, meals for the both of us and a bath after we sup.”

The balding man gave him a price and a forced-looking smile and coin exchanged hands. “If you would, inform us of when you’re about ready for the hot water.”

Sansa hoped she didn’t look suspicious in Sandor’s cloak. Before they’d quite approached the inn, he’d made Stranger halt so he could muddy up the cloak. He said that perhaps they could wear down the fabric, make it dirty enough that she could be taken for a peasant. 

He was going to rip it in a few places with his dagger, but she begged him not to and he relented. The white turned a dirty, splotchy brown and more than a few spots had been stained green from the grass. 

She’d almost refused to put it on when the smell had permeated her nose. Sansa asked him why he didn’t go to any lengths to disguise his own self, though he only laughed and told her that people were going to recognize him no matter what unless he found a way to hide half of his face. 

Sandor helped her stuff all of her hair into the back of the cloak and arranged the hood to cover every red lock. 

“You’ll never look lowborn, but for now this will do,” he had said and turned over her soft hand to observe. 

“Little bird,” he nudged, interrupting her thoughts. “Let’s go eat.”

He stood close behind her as she picked an empty table. 

The other people in the room  did give them a few stares now, though Sansa courteously pretended not to notice. A small boy delivered a garlic roasted chicken to their table along with two spare plates and worn utensils. 

“Wine as well,” Sandor said to the boy. “Two glasses.” 

The boy looked at Sansa and blushed before nodding at Sandor and scurrying away. Sansa’s heart clenched at seeing him, looking no older than Bran. 

Sandor stabbed the chicken’s center with a fork for leverage and then yanked off a leg with his free hand. He looked absolutely pleased with the meal, though Sansa had no idea how to eat it. 

She knew, of course  _ intellectually _ how to consume it, though she’d never eaten meat with her fingers before. Arya loved to eat chicken this way, though the greasiness had always made Sansa feel unladylike. 

Before long, the boy had returned with the glasses of wine and Sandor paused from his feast to rummage his pocket and hand over a coin. At this surprise, the boy’s face lit up and he thanked Sandor before scurrying away once more. 

Sandor rubbed his fingers on a rag and reached for his glass of wine. “You’re not eating,” he observed. “Something wrong?” He gave her a grim look suddenly, “Are you still thinking about-“

“No!” Sansa said quickly, “I just... I’m not used to eating chicken like this...”

He put his wine down and chuckled. “Don’t be afraid. Like this,” he reached to yank off another leg and held it out for her. 

Sansa took it awkwardly and cringed when the butter clung to her fingers. The Hound watched as she took a nibble out of it.

“Stop that!” she complained and he laughed some more. “I can’t eat it with you watching me like that.”

“Aye, alright,” Sandor put his hands up in mock surrender for a moment before reaching for the meat again. 

The two of them finished off the chicken (Sandor’s eating patterns expressed that he was  far hungrier than he let on). He asked the boy to bring them biscuits and mocked Sansa when she dipped one into her wine. Perhaps the warmed dining room and a full belly had left him contented, though his laughter and jests were contagious and she laughed unrestrained alongside him. Sansa had never seen him so close to  happy . 

“I reckon you’d like a bath soon, would you?”

Sansa straightened her posture when she heard him say  bath . She nodded quickly. 

After swallowing the rest of his wine, Sandor rose from his seat and held out his hand to keep her seated, “I’ll tell them,” he said. “Wait here,” he kept himself angled away from the rest of the room as he slid his hand down to unsheath his dagger and handed it over to her, grip first. 

She took it, seeing no other option though not entirely confident that she would actually use such a weapon on someone if they approached her. 

Sandor twisted around and walked off to inform the innkeep of their wanting for a bath. As she waited for him, she noticed that he frequently turned around to make sure she was still there and upon this realization, she couldn’t stifle a smile. 

Before she knew it, he was approaching her again. 

“Will you be finishing this off?” 

She shook her head and soon enough he was grabbing her half-filled wine glass off of the table to drink. 

“After you,” he said with an awkward bow, acting as a perfect  true knight which she could only assume was mockery . 

Despite his clear attempts to annoy her, Sansa wrapped her fingers around his arm with a grin and narrowed eyes. 

“Thank you,  _ ser _ .”

His expression soured instantly and unfortunately their game had ended. “Enough,” he grumbled and dragged her up the creaking wooden staircase. 

Sandor pushed the door open to their rented bedchamber. Inside, there was a smaller featherbed than what either of them were used to; Sansa, for her class and Sandor, for his size. Next to the bed, there was a small end table and an oil lamp while across the room there was an empty tub for bathing.

He moved to place their two satchels by the featherbed and turned to pull at the buckles on his armor. Sansa watched him intently, wondering if he would want her help but too fascinated with the system of the metal pieces to move. 

Once his armor was in a pile that she could only assume had been organized in some significant way by how he returned to arrange the pieces, Sandor rolled his shoulders, stretched out his arms and offered a sigh of satisfaction. When the armor was stripped, he was wearing the breeches and tunic he’d been wearing earlier, the clean ones that he wanted to give her after her dress was ripped. 

In turn, Sansa began to unfasten the buckle of the cloak at her neck. It reeked horribly and when it fell to the floor dustily, she did not want for it again. 

By the foot of the bed, there was a long looking glass. Sansa approached it with a curiosity she’d been carrying about her appearance in mens’ clothing. Sandor’s tunic was unflatteringly baggy on her. She turned to catch a glimpse of her side profile and was not pleased to see how lumpy the shapes of the garments made her look. 

And her  hair . _Gods_, she could see the shine of the oil, the spots at her temples smudged with dirt. She’d been scratching at her scalp, but there was no relief, in fact, the scratching only spread the oils and made her feel even  less clean. Her skin was practically crawling and she couldn’t _wait_ to bathe. 

“Sandor,” she turned, “did they tell you when they would bring the hot water up?”

“They said  soon . I know you’re itching to clean yourself, little bird. I’m sure it will be here soon.” Sandor glanced at the wall and scratched his knees, “Believe me, they’ll not keep you waiting.”

“Sandor...” Sansa pranced over to him, “Did you _threaten_ them?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Just a moment ago you were complaining about the wait,” he said, backing to the edge of the bed defensively. 

Sansa sighed deeply and they both stared at each other expectantly before a knock came at the door. Sandor walked from the bed and scooped up the cloak quickly, handing it to Sansa so she could take the precautions they’d discussed to avoid recognition. 

Two young women moved swiftly into the room carrying a huge vat of steaming water. They emptied it into the tub and then returned to the hall. When the girls came back into the room carrying a different steaming bucket, it was evident they’d taken multiple trips. 

They provided almost-white rags of varying sizes and a small collection of other concoctions for bathing. Sandor dismissed them impatiently, reaching for the smaller bucket and carrying it to the opposite side of the room as the tub. 

“What is that for?” Sansa asked, trading glances from the bucket to the steaming tub. 

“It’s for my wash,” he replied. “I don’t believe you’ll be quick in leaving the tub and I’m wanting for a cleanse as well.” 

Sandor turned awkwardly away from her and shuffled into the divided room that contained the chamber pot. 

While he was away, Sansa removed first the tunic, pulling it over her head quickly and placing it on the wooden table. She concealed herself by crouching beside the tub in case he returned while she was undressing, and then presumed to struggle out of Sandor’s breeches. 

She removed the linen that concealed her wound. 

“Sandor?” she called. 

“Little bird?” 

“My wound, will it be okay in the bath?” She would be devastated if this meant she couldn’t fully submerge into the tub. 

“It’ll be fine. Don’t scrub it,” he suggested, “And the area around is it like to be tender as well.” 

She was too eager to even respond, so she didn’t. Sansa pressed a finger to a patch of skin around the cut and as he predicted, it was incredibly sore. She padded around curiously and viewed it in front of the looking glass. It didn’t look near as terrible as it had  felt , she thought, though it would take more healing than she was used to.

”My lady mother will be distraught when she sees it,” said Sansa. 

After divesting of her smallclothes as quickly as possible, she threw the bundle of clothing atop the table and lowered herself into the water. 

The bath was delightful- the water was still perfectly hot when she entered, enveloping her body flawlessly with heat. She was quick to submerge her hair, more than eager to strip the oils and dirt from it and pleased to remember how much better the hot water felt on her head. 

The wound didn’t feel so magnificent as it became enveloped with soapy water. She winced and bit her tongue, moving around it carefully. 

She scrubbed and scrubbed at her skin with the washing rag that was given to her. Every crevice, under each nail until her skin felt like hers again. Like a _lady’s_ again. 

*****

_ Two more buggering weeks maybe, three at most. _

It was strange how depression could arrive. He’d been very acquainted with it, though this wasn’t something he’d had to deal with in more than a decade. _Grief_? Nothing had even happened yet, but  _ soon _ . The fact had been creeping up on him, getting closer and closer until it was unable to be pushed away anymore. 

One moment he was holding the little bird tight around the waist, camped uncomfortably beneath the stars and then she would start talking about her family, how she couldn’t wait to see them and his hold would loosen. 

Sandor returned to the larger part of their rented chamber, his eyes catching on her shoulders from where they emerged above the water and averting his gaze.  _ Little bird would appreciate the courtesy .  _

He turned away from her, in case she might like to take a peak at him while he was  indecent , and pulled off his tunic. He didn’t want to take off his breeches and expose himself so fully to her, though he didn’t have anything else for her to wear and didn’t want to soil the only clean pair of clothes between the two of them. 

So, Sandor stripped down to his smallclothes and carried the rag and bucket back into the  bath , a poor excuse for one really, just a divided corner in which Sandor could hardly move about. And to make it worse, a candle right next to his face. He would’ve extinguished it immediately had it not been the sole light in the area. 

Nothing would shake the dread of leaving her. 

He kept an eye on the flame the entire time, sliding off his smallclothes and placing them against a short hook. He was all but forced to look into the looking glass, smaller than the one beside the bed, to remove the braids from his hair.

He cringed when he saw himself, ugly as ever. His hands fumbled as he uncapped a vial of soap and poured half into the bucket. Sandor whisked the rag into the water, trying to disperse the soap and wrung it out. 

It was leaning towards miserable. He was relieved to be able to call himself  _ clean _ , though every time he touched the rag to his skin, he would take it away and his skin would be left begging for the warmth again. 

_ Curse the little bird and her tub .  _

He wondered how he’d become like this: giving up a hot bath tub for a _little lady_. _Hells_, doing all _sorts_ of things for a _lady_. 

Sandor scrubbed himself all over and by the end of it, he was  cold all over. The worst part was when it came time to scrub out his hair. To avoid the feeling of the water running down his back, he sunk low and dunked his head into the bucket. 

His eyes came up stinging, an unpleasant, yet expected, outcome, and he was eager in rubbing out the soap with a dry towel. He used the rest of the soap to scrub the oil out of his scalp and afterwards used a softening cream to keep it from drying out miserably. 

As soon as he could, he wrapped himself in the largest of the towels, feeling clean yet unsatisfied. He blew out the flame and grabbed his smallclothes, then exited the standing wooden divider in a towel and welcomed himself into the even chillier, larger room. 

Sansa’s head was tilted back, resting against the edge of the tub and if she didn’t turn to look at him, he’d have thought she was asleep. 

It’s like she didn’t care or even _think_ about it at _all_. Maybe she didn’t understand that when they approached her kingly brother, he would be lucky to get a _moment_ with her without an arrow through the neck.

It’s like she thought that they were going to be  _ wed _ , as though he had any worth at all. 

They weren’t going to let him stay anywhere near them. The Lannister dog switching sides? It would be  wise to have him slain. 

She looked so peaceful in the foamy water, her eyes half open and dreamy. She smiled at him, and then found it in her to laugh at his appearance. 

“Think this is funny, do you?” He gestured to the towel, wrapped around him like a dress. “I’m thinking of going for the town fool,” he jested bitterly. Sandor’s hair began to drip onto the floor. 

She didn’t seem to take it so seriously, for she laughed harder and brought her hand to her mouth. 

He walked to blow out a candle by the looking glass, and then back to the bedside to extinguish the lamp there. With one hand strategically holding the towel, he used the other to guide the smallclothes over his feet and eventually, over his hips. Afterwards, he bent to conceal himself as he pulled the breeches up and half laced them around his stomach. 

“Little bird,” he reached for the cleaner tunic, “I’ll have to get you a new gown tomorrow, but for now, you can wear this.” It was too dark for her to be able to see him more than a shadow, so he used that security to remain uncovered in her presence. “The other one reeks and you’ve just bathed, so don’t wear it.”

She nodded. “The water’s cold,” she admitted and bent her arm to reach for her towel. Sandor turned away, towards the featherbed, and his ear perked as she stood up out of the water. 

“How’s your wound?” Sandor asked, grabbing the spare fur that he’d asked for and throwing it to the ground. He snatched a pillow as well and tossed it to the same spot on the floor. 

“It’s alright. You were right about the hot water,” she said. “It stung.”

He heard the little bird’s feet as they touched the floor, and as she’d moved to grab the tunic. The light decreased further as she extinguished another candle, and then there was only one oil lamp- which she carried to the bedside table. 

“You can keep it uncovered tonight. So that it can breathe. Helps with the healing time.” 

Sandor wrapped the fur around himself and slunk onto the ground. It wasn’t so comfortable, just so bad as the ground that they’d slept on last night. 

“What are you doing?” She gazed at him queerly, then to his pallet on the floor. 

“The featherbed is too narrow for us both, little bird.” 

It wasn’t, which was an easy argument to debunk when she simply  _ looked _ at the bed. 

“It’s not...” she said, wrinkling her brows. 

“You’re wounded,” he complained. “I don’t want to take any chances of-“

“No, that’s ridiculous,” she said as though it should’ve been obvious and turned down the corners of the furs. 

Sandor froze. He’d spent every night of his life alone in a featherbed, or on the dirt or wherever and since the little bird wanted to share a set of furs, he wouldn’t _dream_ of sleeping alone. Though he supposed it wouldn’t be a problem in a few weeks, for he’d spent the rest of his life alone. “Shut out the lamp.” 

_ But why couldn’t she just wait  one day for him to get them some new clothes? Seven hells.  _

When she killed the last flame, he heard her sink into the bed and followed.

As Sandor pressed his weight into the bed, the mattress shuffled and the little bird seemed to move as well. He lowered onto his back, adjusting his stance for maximum comfort and pulled the furs that he’d discarded onto the floor up and around his shoulders. 

Without wasting a moment as it seemed, Sansa curled to him, wincing and trying to put her hands on him. 

It wasn’t that he was unhappy to have her want him- though it seemed that there was a trick being played on him. Now suddenly that he wouldn’t risk letting her touch him, she insisted on it?

“Sansa,” he growled and pushed away her hand. 

He couldn’t see her, though he could feel how she’d froze in her position, her hand still up where he’d nudged it. 

The moment lasted for a painfully long time, both of them frozen in the featherbed, thinking of anything to say. 

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” he sighed. The words would not come out. No explanation was good enough, yet soon enough it would be a big deal.

She raised onto an arm and used the other to caress the furs that concealed his chest. “What is it?” 

If there was something that the little bird exceeded it, it was comforting people. Sandor didn’t know when she’d learned such a skill, though it seemed wasted on him. Everything about her compelled him to tell her everything, to show her all of him, though now when they only had a few more weeks together. He needed a lot of consoling, that was undeniable, though too much taking was like to drain her and he’d rather end himself than be the cause of her extinguished light. 

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve done nothing. It’s not your fault.” 

He was sure that she wasn’t going to just drop it. The words were never going to make her feel better, but perhaps if she knew it wasn’t her fault, that would give her a little relief. 

“It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s my fault,” she said after a while. “I want to know, so I can help you.”

Sandor tightened the furs around himself and chuckled, though it was less for humor. “You can’t fix everything, little bird. You can’t give me a new childhood or a new brother or a new face.” 

“Sandor,” she said, taking on quite an unamused manner and scooting up to try to see him in the darkness. “What is this about? What happened between our sup and you climbing into the featherbed?”

“I just don’t want you to touch me,” he growled and sat up, knowing too well that he sounded like an angry little boy. 

Sansa withdrew her hand from his chest. “Okay. Why not? You don’t _usually_ have any problem with it.”

He didn’t. Not when he was clothed. Though if this was an unsolvable problem and the little bird was having fantasies of them _being_ together, his refusal to remove his clothes was like to be a problem in her eyes. 

And he knew she deserved it as well. Even if they wouldn’t couple, she deserved to be able to touch him as he’d touched her. Though, the thought that she’d be repulsed by the dozens of thick, risen ropes of scar tissue and the occasional, unnatural dip in flesh was too much to bear. How would their journey go then? If she’d realized that his body was nothing like the flower knight she’d dreamed of. 

_Would the little bird be so cruel and artificial?_ To see his body and decide that he’d been right, she’d deserved someone _finer_? She’d seen his face and somehow decided that she could work with it, but to discover that his entire body was like that? 

She’d seen his cock and hadn’t minded it much, practically the only part of him unscathed. If they were to play at coupling like they had back in her chambers, he would be fine keeping his breeches and tunic on- but would she be fine with it? Sandor wouldn’t like it so well if the only part of her he was permitted was her cunt. It wouldn’t be worth it to not be able to set his hands on her like he had, to kiss her breast and stomach and caress her hips and her back. 

It didn’t matter much though, because they  _ wouldn’t _ lay. She’d be returned to her family and he would return to being a miserable drunk and get as far away from the human population as possible, especially her. If Sandor was unlucky enough to catch the little bird and the little lordling husband her family would sell her to, he would kill the bastard. 

Sansa put her hand over his fist suddenly, which he realized was in a tight ball against his lap. Her touch lessened the force in which his fingernails drove into his palm and he submitted, and unclenched it. 

She gently stroked the outside of his hand in that comforting way that she did, the way that made him feel like it was okay to spill his guts. She sat there facing him on the bed with her feet by his hip, content in the silence with no plans to go to sleep for as long as he needed her to just  _ be _ awake with him. He knew that she was beautiful when he saw her for the first time and it’d been hard to stay away, but what she was offering him now was much more damaging to the wall he’d built to keep people out. 

He  did want to tell her; he wanted to tell her _everything_. Every insecurity, every doubt, every secret that he’d never told anyone. He wanted her to listen and put her hand on his heart and hold him and somehow make things  _better_ than they were but he couldn’t get the  buggering words out. 

Is that the consequence of not talking about your feelings for ten and eight years? Likely. He could think the words over in his head a thousand times, but they could never materialize. 

“Sandor,” she said. 

“I can tell you’re tired. Go to bed.”

“I can’t go to bed with you like  this .”

He shrugged. 

“I don’t understand,” she said, “what happened? Please, Sandor. Let me  try to help.”

“I can’t tell you,” was the extent of his explanation. 

“Why not?”

Of course she didn’t understand. She’d always had someone to talk to about her feelings with . 

“Sandor.” The repetitive use of his name was starting to sting. “Is there  _ anything _ I can do to make you feel better?”

He had no interest in moving, though she was going to keep pestering him and if he didn’t feel any better soon, he might get out of the featherbed and start putting his sword through the wall. The innkeepers wouldn’t like that. 

So, with defeat, Sandor moved in with his arms stretched out and carefully pulled her into his side, paying mind to her wound. She seemed delighted by this, wrapping her arms around him tightly over the furs and pressing her face into them. 

He didn’t quite reciprocate the embrace, though he was involuntarily subjected to the softening of his melancholy; losing grasp on the reasons why he shouldn’t open up to her. 

Another long period of time passed, or so he thought in the captivation of his mind, though he knew that Sansa was still awake because she was tracing patterns on the furs over his chest and curling and uncurling her toes against his leg.

“Little bird?” he asked, staring straight ahead at imaginary evil big brothers in the room. 

“Yes?”

“I don’t want to let you go.”

The next few moments were the worst. Everything came in a blur for Sandor. He didn’t know if he’d begun rambling, or if he’d only _thought_ _up_ a violent storm of things he  wanted to convey. He wasn’t sure of any of the little bird’s actions or whether or not she’d said anything at all, though something that he’d said or done obligated her to move. 

He knew he drew his knees up to his stomach and turned away because he couldn’t take the pain in his chest, until the little bird had wrenched herself between him. 

She’d climbed on top of him, put her hand to his cheek and held him with a familiar tightness and with miserable certainty, he became aware that he was weeping. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, it’s been a while. This has been my first fic, but as I mentioned in my last chapter, I’m writing another one. I’ve been writing that for the past few weeks, but I ended up coming back to this one. 
> 
> I have all of next chapter written, but it’s super late and I don’t want to edit it right now- so I’ll post it tomorrow. 
> 
> Thank you so much!
> 
> I will say- that as I’ve been learning about posting chapter by chapter with no actual plans for the future (a terrible idea), the things I’ve written in previous chapters sometimes don’t work with what I plan to write. SO, I did something evil and HEAVILY rewrote chapter 6. It began and ended the same, but I just had to change it. So if you wish, you can go back and read that chapter.


	15. Chapter 15

“Shh,” Sansa hummed against his ear, one arm cradling his head and the other hand brushing through his hair. 

For the longest time, he’d refused to say a word to her though she could feel him slowing down as they held each other and then it just _came out_. And after a smaller period of time, Sandor had begun crying. 

She held him as well as she could, trying to suck out some of the pain as he poured himself out into her arms. 

It was bewildering how quickly he could switch moods.  _ Terrifying_, possibly a more suitable word. One moment he would be sweet and soft and comfortable and then allit took was a change in the wind’s direction, it seemed, and he would  freeze. He would _still_, anchor himself to a piece of furniture and sulk at length without offering a word of explanation. 

He was the most stubborn person she’d ever met, in that regard. Utterly incapable of opening up his mind to her through his words. 

He would show her, though. That seemed to come easily enough to him. If anything, it seemed as though Sandor _loved_ showing her what she meant to him through his actions. 

Much of it was through physical affection. He loved to wrap around her when they’d been sleeping off the King’s Road, curl his frame around hers and shield her from danger by covering her in his limbs. He loved to touch her hands, she’d noticed as well. When they were laying together, curled up into a puddle, he took them, lacing their fingers together. She always felt like they were together for true when he did that, like they were joined. Maybe he thought she was asleep. 

Though he also did _everything_ for her. When they were on the King’s Road, he’d handled everything. He’d tended Stranger and prepared their food and their bedrolls and he’d even _built the fires_ for them. Perhaps he did it because he thought she wasn’t equipped to live as such, though Sansa liked to believe he did it to be chivalrous. 

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” she whispered, trying to mirror what he’d said upon taking her from King’s Landing. 

He didn’t respond with words, only pulled her tight against him, his arms low around her hips as he trembled. 

Sandor’s weeping fit didn’t last so long though. At least, she’d seen him cry harder. It seemed as though he’d remembered himself and remembered her and he resigned his cries to intervals of sniffling. She didn’t like it. He should be entitled to his own emotions, at least when they were alone together. 

She’d accumulated the desire to hold him closer. Sansa grasped the furs that concealed his front from her. “Can I move them?”

He seemed to consider it for a long time, though he didn’t push her hands away like he had before. “You won’t like it.”

“I won’t like what?”

He brought his hand to the burned cheek and touched it warily, like the burns were fresh and he was touching them for the first time. He dragged his hand down and gestured to his shoulder. “It doesn’t stop here,” he said. “I’m _covered_ with them. _I_ can’t even look at myself. Can’t see how you could.” 

_ Is that it? _ That he was worried that his body would disgust her? Sansa climbed off of him and moved to the bedside table. She struck the flint and relit the oil lamp, inspiring Sandor to cover his eyes and flinch away in surprise. 

She was only wearing smallclothes and his tunic.

Sansa had no plans to show him this now, _or ever_, for that matter— in fact, she resolved not to tell anyone about it apart from a few handmaidens who knew by default. However, she’d not realized how significant this was for him, how consuming this insecurity of his became. 

She knew how deeply he was averse to situations that exposed him, and she didn’t want to have any part in forcing him to peel back his layers... but she would peel back her own, if he needed that. 

He sat up, and Sansa handed him the oil lamp. His curiosity at whatever she was doing had stunted his crying, at least. She turned her back on him then, feeling a tremble along with the sensation of his gaze. With cold fingers, she grasped the back of the hem of his long tunic and drew it up slowly, revealing more and more skin until it stopped right below her bottom. 

To be true, she wasn’t sure exactly what it looked like. She’d tried to view it in the mirror, but she’d never been able to see all of it. She did, however, remember what it felt like to receive. She remembered Ser Meryn’s cold steel as it entered her body on Joffrey’s command. She remembered Joffrey laughing, and Ser Meryn’s open hand, pressing her forward into the stone— and she remembered screaming. 

It wasn’t so bad as she’d seen him do to other smallfolk, but Joff had been shouting vile things at her all the while and  no one had been there to protect her. Joffrey threatened to kill her if she told anyone, so she hadn’t. 

There’d been several lesions right on the backs of her thighs. She didn’t know how they’d looked, but when he cut her, he went in every direction, twisting and turning the blade, marring her flesh like a butcher. Eventually she passed out, which was mercy in truth— her body permitting her leave from the pain. 

Sansa kept her back away to him, a shiver building in her until her whole body went up in goosepimples, little hairs standing out all over the place. 

Sandor appeared behind her then, suddenly and without a sound; though he was at her legs, not at her back. His knees made a tiny crack as he slunk down and wrapped his fingers around the outsides of her thighs. 

His fingers brushed over her scars gently, as though he were afraid that they still ached. And then, a response which came entirely unexpected, his lips came up on her. Right onto the backs of her legs in a sweet, slow pattern. The sensation made her shiver more and it made her want to cry as well, though she withheld. One of them needed to be strong. 

He shifted around on the ground behind her and brought her by the hips into his lap, her back to his front. 

“I should’ve killed him,” Sandor said. “Trant and Joff, the Imp— all of them.”

She let her head fall into his chest, below his jaw. It wasn’t the sort of comment that demanded a response. 

“You’ll bear a scar here as well.” He touched her middle gently and she cringed, so he drew it away and wrapped it low around her. 

“At least it won’t be because of Joffrey.” 

“No. It’ll be because of _me_.” 

“It’s not your fault. And even if it was, I’d rather they be from you than from him.”

He didn’t respond to that, though it seemed to freeze him in thought. He went still behind her, his fingers halting their caress on her sides. She could hardly even feel his chest swell with breath. 

“Do you want to see them?” Sandor asked. 

She turned her head to look at him. Of _course_ she wanted to see them. She wanted to see every part of him he permitted. “Yes.”

They stood up, Sandor gripping his furs protectively and Sansa backing away to give him an appropriate amount of space. He handed over the oil lamp and spent a long time pondering: tracing his fingers on the edges of the furs, pulling them partly away and then changing his mind and covering up again. He still didn’t look like he was breathing properly. 

Sansa put a hand on Sandor’s shoulder through the fabric. He took a shaky exhale and, with unsteady fingers, let the furs fall onto the featherbed.

_He hadn’t lied_. His chest, stomach, arms: they were covered in scars _generously_. And not even just scars!— Large marks of brown and purple speckled his skin. There was an abundance of spots; a map. She could see where they disappeared off into his breeches, extending below his hips and she assumed that the pattern resumed well down his legs. 

His body was _marred_, however uneasy it made her to admit. Though, the marks didn’t make him unattractive. She wanted to know about every single one, as overwhelmed as it would make her to ask. Looking at him like this made her feel dizzy.

There were thin, dark hairs on his chest that dissolved into a thin line down his stomach, though they were shorter than she expected. Had he shaved himself in King’s Landing? The thought of him taking a blade to his hair sent tingles to her belly. 

She realized that the oil lamp’s proximity to Sandor’s front may have been making him uncomfortable because his eyes were fixed on the dancing flame. He didn’t move an inch from her though, the ever-obedient _dog_ that he was, ready to be branded if she wished it. Sansa put it onto the bedside table and moved back to him. 

He pulled his upper lip between his teeth and followed her with his eyes, seemingly anxious for her reaction. Or... any reaction, she supposed. She hadn’t _actually responded_, however much her head had swirled with thoughts of his skin. 

Sansa brought her hand gently onto his stomach, right of his belly button, and he tensed beneath the touch. She rolled her finger over a few of the raised lines, feeling his skin heat beneath the touch. Her head began to spin and with shaky hands, she pushed him to a seat on the bed. 

She felt as though she could sleep. Was that it? Her eyes wanted to close— she felt... _relaxed— _though sleep was not what she wanted, she thought. 

He twisted until he was back against the pillow and she climbed above him, letting her legs fall around his hips. His protrusive arousal beneath her made her feel all the more lightheaded, struck with that deep lull that was obviously not tiredness. 

Sansa kept her hands on his torso, traveling along each new scar that she could find. His skin was burning, so much so that she found it in her to worry if the room was too warm. 

“Do you remember how you got all of them?”

“No. Many of them, I recall. Though it would be like asking if you remembered every time you smashed your toe in the door.” 

“They don’t—“ she traced a thin one beside his heart and then gazed up at his eyes. “They don’t mean anything to me that you thought they would. You’re not  _ ugly_.”

She put a finger over one of his nipples, which elicited a shiver from him before she lowered herself over his frame. 

He pulled his knees up between her legs and they snugged against her bottom, making her skin tingle and burn everywhere. 

“I  _ want _ you,” she said with her arms around his neck and her lips an inch away from his. 

Sandor took in a shaky breath and pressed his knees further into her for a moment before flipping the two of them around so he could hover above her. He was breathing heavily. They both were, and he slid his hands under her tunic. 

“Can I look?”

She nodded, and he helped her slide it over her head until she was only wearing the lower smallclothes. 

He touched the area around her wound and watched her expression. “How does it feel?”

“It doesn’t hurt.” _It did. _Well, it was tender and sore. It felt clean enough, and she didn’t want to say something that would make him stop this connection that they were forming. 

“It’s not so big. It’s already scabbing.”

Sandor studied the cut for a moment more and then seemed to forget about it, too interested in her breasts. He slid over her, rubbing his hips between hers in strokes and putting a cautious hand to her chest. 

“That feels good,” she said, in a voice that sounded nothing like her own. 

He lowered his lips to lick one of her stiffened nipples and her mouth fell open. 

“And that? Just as good?” It sounded something one would say to be narcissistic, though he looked genuinely interested in her feedback. 

“  _ Better _ .” 

Her core burned more and more as he slid his manhood, covered by breeches and smallclothes, between her hips. She  whined even, sounding like an animal desperate for a mate. 

“_Shh_, little bird,” Sandor laughed, “We’re not alone in this inn.” 

“It  _ hurts_,” she said, defending her cries. 

He looked a little stricken and pulled himself to a hover above her. “_Hurts_? Where? Did I rub your wound? We can cover it if you need to—“

“No,” she felt herself flush. “Not... my cut.”

He was still frozen, so she timidly pulled one of his hands down to her thigh, dragging it close to her woman’s place. “It hurts... _here_ .”

He stared at her a moment, pondering what it could be— and then began to chuckle heavily. “No,” he said, bracing his hand on the mattress to regain himself. “Not pain, an  _ache_. You’re _aroused_, little bird. I’m aching as well.” He sat back a moment to unlace his breeches. “You remember, back in your bedchamber in King’s Landing. This is how you felt then?”

She nodded, a little unsure. She remembered, of course, though that time, her actions were out of curiosity. She’d wanted to touch a man. This time, her body _demanded_ the touch. “It wasn’t as bad as it is now.”

He grinned. “It’s nothing  _bad_.” Sandor pulled off his breeches entirely and threw them onto the floor. He settled back between her legs in only his smallclothes and she felt his manhood press down against her. “It’s emptiness. It’s your desire.” 

Sandor ground against her and she made soft moans as the surface tension was alleviated. “It feels so  _ good_.”

“You feel the same, little bird,” he mumbled hazily. “I want you, can you tell?” 

Sansa nodded and smiled, eyes only half open. “I think that... I want you to make the emptiness.. go  away.” 

It was a clear invitation for him to take her. He wanted to take her, didn’t he?— That’s what the _desire, _as he’d said, was all about, wasn’t it? If he took her, they would  _have_ to be together. If he gave her a child, her mother would  _ have _ to let her marry him, wouldn’t she? And besides, she wanted to know what it could feel like to go beyond this. Wanted him to scratch the itch that she didn’t know how to. 

Sandor swallowed. 

“Can you?”

“I can make you feel better, little bird, as I have, though I won’t take you.”

Strangely, her heart sank. She’d not expected to be so disappointed in something like this, though he’d claimed that he could cure the ache, so she nodded. 

He grabbed the hem of her smallclothes and pulled them down, threw them to the side. 

Her breath caught in her throat at being so exposed. He hadn’t even hesitated, for someone who insisted he wouldn’t have her. 

Sandor traced a finger over her thigh and pushed it to the join of her hips. She could feel how easily he was rubbing over her, a slickness that coated her woman’s place. His digit dragged upwards, slippery as it covered the stiff nub above her lower lips. It was so sensitive that it was almost ticklish and it made her thighs tingle a bit. 

He lowered his body over hers and rubbed her in little circles with two fingers until he interrupted himself and dragged back down to her entrance. “This is where you ache,”he kissed her cheek and her jaw and the sensitive skin below her eyes. “I can make it go away. Do you still want me to?”

Was this her maidenhead? He told her he wasn’t going to have her like that, so Sansa assumed that this would not be too destructive. Even if it proved to be, his fingers were on her and he was just one gesture away from making her feel something new and exciting and the future seemed so far away.. . 

“Yes,” she stated, and he pressed through her slickness slowly. 

At first she didn’t feel much, only a slight stretch around his finger. When he pushed further, it stung and burned a little, though it wasn’t painful enough for her to cry or whine or ask him to stop. 

Sandor pushed his finger through farther and farther, the sting increasing through her core until she could feel the rest of his hand against her skin as well. 

“Does it hurt?”

“Only a little,” she said. It stung, though she couldn’t feel the ache anymore. She was wrapped around his finger, her legs bent against the featherbed while their bodies were almost entirely skin to skin. “Keep going,” she moved her hips up towards his hand just slightly, to see what would happen. “Please.”

Sandor dropped his face into her neck and she could feel his breath coming out ragged and hot. He pulled his finger away from her a moment, and then eased it back in. It went slowly like that for a while, all the way in and almost completely, but not entirely, back out. When he pushed in, she produced short, quiet moans that were not entirely of pleasure and he began whining soon enough, sounding like an animal himself. 

“Are you okay?” Sansa asked, putting a hand in his hair to pull his face towards her. 

“Aye,” he said, and drew his finger out. 

It felt good when he withdrew it. The ache was gone, but her insides were hot and stung a little. He moved to sit on his haunches, putting one hand inside his smallclothes and using two knuckles on the other hand to rub her nub. 

Sansa pushed her hips to create more friction and soon her pleasure came and she ground into his hand, trembling. Her back had arched and fallen, and then Sandor had laid down against her front, his bare chest rubbing against hers perfectly. He rocked back and forth, his hip movements occasionally meeting her overly sensitized flesh and causing her to writhe. 

Eventually, he jumped from the bed and hid himself behind the divider that concealed the chamber pot. She heard a partially stifled moan and then water splashing around. 

Last time, he’d caused a mess on her but this time he hadn’t. She wouldn’t say she was upset about it, for his... _pleasure_... on her thighs was messy and sticky and foreign. She would’ve liked to see the look on his face though. 

He came back to the bed, smallclothes readjusted, with a small rag that he handed to her. While she cleaned herself off, he pulled his breeches back on, pulled them snug and tied a bow at the top. 

Sansa spread her arms wide for him to climb into and smiled giddily. 

“Do you mean to sleep like  _ that_, little bird?” Sandor asked, chuckling as he walked over to the discarded tunic.

She looked over to where he’d tossed the garb. “Well.. I suppose not.”

He pushed the furs aside and chuckled, then climbed into the bed and sat on his haunches. He began pulling out the sleeves correctly and bunched the tunic up for her to pull over her head. 

“Thank you,” she said when it was back on comfortably and he rolled his eyes. 

She reached up and yanked his arm down suddenly, pulling him over top of her. 

His knee fell between hers and she held him tight around the back. His skin was soft for a while, until she hit a scar, then soft again and so on as she traced around. His hair was silky after the wash, strands spread out and brushing against the side of her face. She could hear the way his breath was coming in, very soft breaks in satisfaction. 

“You look so pretty when you smile ,” she said. “It makes me happy. _You_ make me happy.”

There was no response, though perhaps he was thinking about it. 

He was heavy above her, though it sort of felt nice. Actually, it felt very nice. The weight on wound would’ve been problematic had it not been distributed evenly over her whole front body. Either him or her, she wasn’t sure, had adjusted the timing of their breathing— or maybe it just _happened—_ so that their inhales and exhales were matched seamlessly. Her chest rose in time with his back, and fell the same and she was delightfully overwhelmed by how much they were  _ one _ instead of two. 

His weight pressed her into the bed and warmed her all over. She was surrounded by him, though it felt safe and secure, so she held him there with as tight a grasp as she could muster. 

“Am I hurting your wound, little bird?” His chest rose away from hers, just slightly off of her stomach as he pulled himself in. 

“No, it’s okay.” The pain was sweet enough. 

There was a pause, though she could almost hear him overthinking something. Or maybe she could just feel it, as his body froze in place, not even seeming to exchange oxygen. 

“Do you think,” he let his chest lower against her, allowing his weight to settle fully, “that you’ll be able to sleep well if I stay like this?”

Sansa clasped her hands together behind him where they rested at the dip of his back, right above his bottom. Her heart twisted into a knot at his question, at the reminder that he needed her. 

“Yes.” I_ will_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised :))))


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola! So sorry if you’ve been waiting for an update... I was pretty resigned to abandon this, but it would’ve been too unsatisfying for me, and, I imagine, unsatisfying for you. 
> 
> I just... yikes. I have so many feelings about this fic 😂 When I started it back in July, I had no outline, no goal at all, really, other than to just throw something out into the world because I was so extremely passionate about this ship (and still am). That’s obviously not a good writing plan, and I wasn’t a very good writer! I still wouldn’t consider myself a very good writer, but I certainly feel a lot more confident about my skills now than I did nine months ago when i put out chapter 1. 
> 
> Anyway I’ve been overwhelmed by this fic for months now. I can’t read through any of the old chapters without cringing in my seat... but I think that’s something that a lot of writers go through— ESPECIALLY when you’ve written smut. Holy shit, what an experience that is 😂
> 
> I’m going to do my best to resolve this— Mayyyybe five or six more chapters. No comment on when those’ll be out... 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

Ch. 16

Though it hadn’t been the first time, this was different somehow... they’d been through _more_ together; they were bonded. It wasn’t just a warrior touching her in the dark, or even just a man. It was Sandor Clegane, the Hound... her fiercest protector and the non-knight that she... 

*****

Sandor woke up with the little bird’s legs wrapped stubbornly around his. He needed a piss. 

And what a stupid fucking decision it had been to sleep right on top of her. The whole night was full of awful decisions, but at the very least he could’ve stopped himself from sleeping directly atop her _fresh wound_. He had been the one to tell her not to cover it, so that it would get some fresh air— and still the only air she was exposed towas his breath on her ear. 

It would’ve been a lie to say he regretted any of it though. It would’ve been a lie to say that he wouldn’t have gone farther had she told him to. Sandor took advantage of her neck‘s proximity and sucked her earlobe into his mouth. 

Sansa took in a deep breath and stretched her legs above his hips, rolled her shoulders back, took a deep yawn. She folded her hands around his back and he could see her grinning with the corner of his eye. 

“What’s got you so cheerful?” asked Sandor. 

Her pale cheeks turned pink and she scrunched her eyes closed. 

“Don’t get too stirred up,” he teased, giving her neck open-mouthed kisses. Sandor pulled himself up and shimmed onto his haunches between her legs. He grazed his fingers over the hem of her (well... _his, really_) tunic and sought her consent to draw it up. 

Sansa nodded, and he began sliding it up beneath her breast. The woolen tunic had become one with her wound— which he should’ve fucking anticipated, given all the lacerations he’d received in his lifetime. Bloody idiot. 

“Let me know if this hurts,” he said, and as slowly as he could, Sandor pulled the tunic out from her injury. 

Her stomach clenched visibly and she bit her lip. 

The wound had scabbed up, drawing tightly inwards. And there were bits of his tunic clogged inside; minuscule fragments of fuzz that’d adhered to her body. _Oh bugger me_. 

He could already imagine how it would look when it scarred: a thin, jagged white line under her first rib. No doubt she would be disgusted by it indefinitely, the _lady_ that she was. It’d be a hideous flaw to her for the rest of her life and she’d be completely ashamed even though no one else would ever see it. 

_Save her lord fucking husband_. 

Unfortunately, Sandor ripped part of the scab when he pulled off the tunic, the cloth that had been plugging the wound. _Bloody idiot!_ He watched blood begin to trickle over her side and he darted across the room for a dry rag. 

“Hold this here,” he told her as he pressed the material over the blood. “It’s uncomfortable, but it’ll pass.” 

She obeyed and held it tightly, staring at him patiently. 

He knew he had to get something for the damned scratch, but she’d caught him in quite the predicament, hadn’t she? She couldn’t very well stay here alone, and she couldn’t come with him either, could she? It was risky enough being at the buggering inn at all, but to bring her out into the villages was just simply a horrible plan. 

Really, he knew he should’ve taken her with him no matter what, but she was in no condition to be on a damn horse— she was _wounded_, and bleeding again, thanks to him. What the fuck had he done? Leaving the capital... he’d made her a fugitive, all under the pretense of _keeping her safe_. As if she was any safer with him. Not only was her precious _virtue_ in danger, but he’d gotten her fucking wounded! 

What a cruel jape.

Anyway, he’d been at the bloody inn a dozen times and at least half of them, he’d acquired a new scar. He knew where to get her ointments, as long as everything went to plan. 

“Listen, little bird,” Sandor said, catching her eye. “I’ve to get you some salves for that cut before it gets any worse.” 

Sansa was staring intently at him. She nodded her understanding. 

“You’re not to leave this room for any reason. Someone will be guarding the door, but you’re not to open it for them— Not for anyone save me, alright?” 

She nodded again. 

“You’ll bar it after I leave. I’ll not be gone an hour.” 

Sansa pulled the tunic back down and scooted up against the poorly crafted headboard. “But... shouldn’t I go _with_ you?” She glanced to the side. 

“You’ll be perfectly safe here. And you’ve got your pretty little blade to protect yourself with, but you won’t need to do a thing. Just rest.” 

“No... I mean... You’ll be all alone...”

“I work best alone,” Sandor said, halfway into his armor. “I’ll be fine.” 

Sansa frowned... but she gave a compliant nod and Sandor turned away to pull on his left gauntlet. 

“Wait!” said Sansa. She caught his arm. 

“What is it?” 

Sansa gulped. She tugged gently on his forearm to pull him closer to her, and when he was just inches above her nose, Sansa leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. 

Sandor cleared his throat. He nodded at her curtly before returning to put on his gauntlets. 

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said. “And don’t make any noise if you can help it.”

*****

Sansa regretted having only brought her threads and needle to entertain herself with. She knew that she could only pack minimally, but how much embroidering could she possibly do? 

She could’ve brought one book, couldn’t she have? A book took up less space than a dress, Sansa thought. 

And Sandor definitely wasn’t going to approve of the blue flowers she’d sewn to his tunic. Her mother had always favored blue flowers... but he probably didn’t. She didn’t think he favored any flowers. 

Truthfully, she would’ve been more than happy to mend her dress... but the way that Sandor had cut it made that notion impossible. But surely Sansa would be able to make something else out of the fabric scraps. 

The shirt had to come off for her to sew it, but she’d swaddled herself in a thin sheet to keep warm and... _modest_... even though she hadn’t been very _modest_ these days at all. 

Sansa kept her dagger on the featherbed, right by her side. She couldn’t hear the person outside that Sandor had said would be guarding the door, but surely he wouldn’t have lied to her about something so critical as her safety. 

While she was stitching away, she contemplated whether or not she’d be able to sew her own wound closed. It was an act she’d done hundreds of times with fabric, Sansa thought, how different could it be with her own skin? Yet she didn’t think Sandor would share her ideology on the matter, and after poking herself just once with the needle she realized that most ladies probably didn’t sew their own wounds. 

_Most ladies don’t have wounds like this_, Sansa thought. 

More than a few times since he’d left had she thought about their bedsport. Of course, she knew that there was more to coupling than what they had done... but surely it was enough to still be considered accordingly. 

The previous night, he’d... well, _entered_ her with a finger and it was nothing like she thought it’d be. It wasn’t horrifically painful, though she couldn’t say that it had felt very good... It was nothing compared with the ecstasy of him toying with the sensitive nub of hers, after all. 

What he’d done, however, felt exactly how he said it would: _satisfying_. It certainly made her ache go away, that part was not a lie. The strange part was that she really wanted him to do it again, more than she could admit to his face. Whatever it was that he’d done had made her feel complete in a whole different sense of the word.

A gruff knock came at the door. 

Sansa leapt out of the featherbed... though it was a mistake. Her midsection produced an uncomfortable cramping and she clutched at her belly. She threw the thin sheet back onto the bed and pulled the tunic over herself. When she was settled, she carried the dagger over to the barred door. 

She finally heard the voice of the person who must’ve been hired to guard the chamber. She heard Sandor, too; they must’ve been doing some sort of business, Sansa assumed. 

“Little bird,” came Sandor’s growling voice, “let me in.” 

Sansa lifted the bar and he pushed through, a small burlap sack in his hand. He was frowning heavily at her. 

“You thought,” Sandor began, “that when I said, ‘don’t make any noise,’ that I meant for you to sing?” He gestured for her to go back to the bed. 

Sansa took in a sharp breath. She had hardly noticed that she’d been singing, in truth... “My apologies... It’s sort of... a habit.” 

“You can’t just...” 

When he saw his tunic on her, his eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up. He pointed to the flowery shirt and his mouth twisted up in confusion. “What did you... to my tunic...?” 

“And sorry...” Sansa pleaded, “about that...” 

Sandor rubbed his forehead. He pinched the fabric in his hands and examined the blue and yellow flowers closely. She thought he was going to shout at her, but he smirked instead, and the smirk turned into a chuckle. 

“I can cut out the stitches,” she offered. “But you’ll have a ton of little holes in your tunic. I’m really sorry... I shouldn’t have done any of it.” 

Sandor pushed her by the shoulders to sit on the bed. “I don’t care,” he said dismissively, a queer half-smile contorting his lips. “No one’s going to see it anyway.” 

*****

Her and her buggering _singing_. Manners drilled into her to the seven heavens and back, yet she couldn’t follow directions to save her life. 

_If one hair on her head is out of place_, Sandor had told the little _ser_ he’d paid to protect her at the door. 

He’d really been counting on his threats to disembowel the boy, but never again. He wasn’t gone a full hour, yet every minute was spent worrying about that damned boy guarding her door. It was the most recent idiotic decision in a slew of idiotic decisions. 

And there were more to come, namely when he delivered her to her wolf-king to be wed off to a polished prick. 

“You can’t go singing anymore,” Sandor told her as he uncovered her middle again. “Not when we’re in public, that is.” 

Sansa frowned. “_Pardons_, Sandor. I didn’t mean to defy you—“

“Enough of that,” he barked. “I’m not your _master_, Sansa. I’m trying to protect you and you’re making it very difficult. First this,” he pressed his fingers below her lengthy laceration, “and the Kingsguard cloak— I should’ve burned it— and now, you’ve been singing. You could’ve summoned some little lad here; more of those rats from the King’s Road.”

There were tears welling at the corners of her eyes, but he couldn’t have allowed himself to comfort her. Not yet, at least. 

“The daft knight that I compensated, I didn’t tell him that my _lady_ was inside. And the innkeep, he shouldn’t know that I left at all. No one should’ve noticed my absence and _certainly_ no one should’ve noticed that I left a _fair maiden_ _alone_ in this bloody inn.”

The tears were dripping down the little bird’s cheeks now. Her eyes were flushed and irritated and Sandor rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

“Do you understand?” he asked. “I’m trying to _protect_ you. You have to listen.” 

She nodded, and Sandor removed his gauntlets so that he could swipe away her tears. 

It was shit, for him to tell her that she couldn’t sing anymore. Part of him hoped that she did anyway. 

“I understand,” said Sansa. She placed her hand on top of his. 

“Did anything of interest happen while I was out?” asked Sandor as he pulled out a little vial of disinfectant that he’d received. He went to wet a clean cloth in the basin. 

The little bird assured him that naught had occurred, still calming down from her cries. “You weren’t gone very long at all.”

Sandor took the cloth to her cut and she jumped. 

“The water’s not warm anymore,” he chuckled, earning himself a small smile from her. He tipped a quarter of the vial’s contents out and distributed them as evenly as he could.

He clamped his hand, covering the cloth, over her middle... just as Sansa began squirming under his grasp. 

“Gentle,” he said. “It’ll be over in a moment.” 

He uncovered the cut. Really it was counterintuitive to get it wet— slowed down the healing time— but at this point, it was the only way to keep her from further infection. 

“Do you think we’ll be leaving tomorrow?” Sansa asked, pulling her hair away from his working space. 

“Aye. Far too dangerous to stay a third day. With luck, this’ll be closed up more sturdily by midday tomorrow. Maybe the eve,” he added consideringly. 

Sandor tossed the vial back into the sack and retrieved a little jar of ointment. The balm inside was pale and oily-looking, and it spread evenly over her wound, glistening when the little bits of light hit it. 

The little bird was much more comfortable with the salve’s application than that of the disinfectant. She gave him starry eyes and a questionable grin. 

“What is it?” asked Sandor as he pulled a bandage that he’d purchased out of the burlap bag. 

“_Maester_ Sandor,” she giggled and clamped a hand over her mouth. 

He narrowed his eyes at her and unrolled the cloth. “Sit up,” he said, a growl in his voice at her remark. He placed a sheet over the wound itself and bound it with layers of cloth... and tied it tightly at her side. 

Sansa readjusted the shirt over her front. 

It was the first time that he noticed how well the flowers that she’d embroidered complimented her hair. Really, Sandor thought that... when they parted, she should keep the tunic. He’d destroyed a dress of hers and it was only right that he gave her something in return... and he wanted her to have something of his. 

But she couldn’t have it because he wanted it for himself, blue and yellow flowers and all. 

Sandor stripped off the rest of his armor and climbed over her on the mattress, curling up by her side. He lowered an arm at her belly, careful to avoid the area in which he’d bandaged. 

_Fuck_, if he could imagine the rest of his life without her... 

“Thank you, Sandor,” she said, “for patching me up.” 

Sandor thought he might’ve liked to hear one of her songs now, after all— but he’d _just_ told her that she had to keep her pretty lips closed and it would’ve been hypocritical, even for him. He relaxed his head on her chest.

But it would’ve been nice... to hear her sing some folly about senseless _true_ knights and the naive ladies who loved them. 

“My fault anyway,” he replied. “My duty to fix it.” 

The little bird ran a hand through his hair. Light was coming dully through the curtains that he’d cinched shut, but otherwise the room was dark as night. 

“I told you that it’s not your fault,” she whispered. 

It didn’t really matter what she’d told him. It _was_ his fault. Sandor stroked her lower stomach with his fingertips. He’d really been an idiot, ever since they’d left King’s Landing and even before. 

It wasn’t yet midday and Sandor wanted to go right back to sleep. She didn’t express any complaints, so perhaps they could just continue laying together. Soon enough he wouldn’t have the luxury anymore. 

His free arm was tucked under the burned side of his face, resting overtop of her chest. His hand was safely catching evidence of his grief, and he was doing his best to keep still and quiet so as not to burden her rest. 

What felt like an eternity of silence passed before the little bird’s belly erupted a long, grumbling plea for sustenance. She chuckled timidly to herself, shifted uncomfortably, and offered word of apology. 

Sandor laughed, swiping at his eyes as nonchalantly as he could. He took in a sharp sniffle and hopped off of the featherbed. 

“Come on, little bird,” he said. “Let’s get you something to eat.”


End file.
